


Take Me Out

by TheZeroMoment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually quite a bit of Mystrade, Character Death, Child Abuse, F/M, Hints Of Mystrade, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Teenlock, i love it :3, what can i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 22,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheZeroMoment/pseuds/TheZeroMoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ringing gunshot, Harrys scream, the blinding pain in his shoulder, the blood everywhere. He closed his eyes, shaking away the memory, as his feet took him the familiar path to the mathematics classroom.</p><p>Two months and six days John Watson had vanished for. The news story of a father, shooting his son and daughter on a drunken rampage before shooting himself, explodes in the press. When John returns back to school, he meets the odd Sherlock Holmes, the kid who arrived a month after it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I update every Thursday so that's the day to come back for more ^.^
> 
> I sadly don't own Sherlock Holmes and the universe, everything belongs to other people.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at littlepurpleduckling.tumblr.com if you wish.
> 
> Enjoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sadly don't own Sherlock Holmes and the universe, everything belongs to other people.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at littlepurpleduckling.tumblr.com if you wish.
> 
> Enjoy?

 

The hallways at St. Catherine’s were familiar to John, though not much. It had been weeks since he stepped foot in this horrific place called high school, known as hell.

Two months and six days had changed everything so much.

‘Johnny Boy! Where the hell have you been then?’ A large boy shouted. John couldn’t remember his name, although he vaguely recalled playing rugby with him last year, nothing else though. He can’t be really important then.

‘Around.’ He replied. The story had blown up on the news, it was obvious that everyone would know. The ringing gunshot, Harrys scream, the blinding pain in his shoulder, the blood everywhere. He closed his eyes, shaking away the memory, as his feet took him the familiar path to the mathematics classroom.

He could _feel_ the limp as he walked and he knew for a fact that the others could see it too, people moved out of his way, some whispering behind their hands, others staring, one girl pointed at him incredibly obviously while he passed by, talking to her friend in a hushed voice. Many people probably thought he was dead, others thought he would have been locked up, be it in prison or in a mental asylum.

The bell rang, shrill and loud, and the crowds started moving like the red sea and John just let the flow of students push him into the classroom. Lumbering over to his old seat, he noted that someone was already sat there. He looked familiar too, like a face from a faded photograph. Everyone looked like that nowadays. Everyone was same old same old, he had been put through hell and back and no one changed during the process apart from him. It ground the whole ‘fitting in’ thing to a halt.

‘No way, John Watson? Captain of the rugby team, went missing for months on end, killed a bloke and got away with it, John Watson?’

‘I didn’t kill anyone, Anderson, and you know it.’ John muttered while he made his way to an empty seat.

‘Don’t fucking joke with me, Watson. It was plastered over the news, I’m surprised they haven’t locked you up yet.’ Anderson sneered at him. John sat down and leant back on the hard plastic chair as the teacher walked in.

‘Phillip, sit.’ She said, arms full of exercise books which she dumped on her desk rather flamboyantly, Miss Calibo, he thought her name was, she was a short, curvy woman with long dark hair which she held off her face with an elastic hair band. She was young and pretty, as pretty as a teacher can be anyway.

She glanced over at John, and the shock registered on her face. He knew no one thought he would be back in school, it was actually recommended for him to switch schools, too many bad memories of the building, too many bad memories of the people. John reckoned it was just the normalness of it all; the idea that everything is completely fine. The entire thing made him suddenly and unbelievably angry. He clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe deeply, a calming mechanism he’d recently mastered.

‘John? Are you okay?’ The teacher asked, while placing his old maths book on the table. ‘I heard what happened and I’m very sorry.’

John didn’t dignify the patronising words with a reply, and he heard her move on. He just flipped open his book, pulling a pen from his pocket, and when she started blabbering on about the square root of whatever, he just doodled in the corner of the page with the blue biro, little leaves and flowers and blades of grass. God did he miss being outside. It couldn’t be helped though, that he wasn’t allowed outside apart from under supervision because of what happened. But still.

The bell rang faster than he expected, Miss Calibo clapped her hands and announced the homework should be in for Thursday. John took his time packing his books and pen away, letting everyone else leave the classroom before he did, the class of rowdy teenagers shoved each other through the door, allowing enough commotion for John to slip out behind them unnoticed.

Apart from he was noticed.

As the door banged shut behind him, various groups of other people mulling around, he saw him.

John didn’t think he had ever seen a prettier person in his lifetime. The boy, at least a year younger than him, was leaning, shoulders hunched, against the wall, his uniform was scruffy, but not in the cool way, it was like he couldn’t be bothered. His tie hung loose on a stained white shirt that had sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal pale, smooth skin with multiple braided bracelets tied around his wrists, and three top buttons undone. He had skeletal hands, in which he tossed up into the air then caught an expensive looking mobile phone. He had raven black hair that was almost mad-scientist curly, that hung longish around his thin face. He had sharp cheekbones that pushed against his skin and devilish eyes. Blue and clear as the springtime skies. Eyes which were looking directly at John.

The mysterious boy smiled cheekily, almost a smirk but it was too playful, with plump, pale pink lips. He shoved his phone back in his pocket before picking up his worn leather rucksack and pushing through the sea of students. John just managed to catch a glimpse of his crazy hair before he was engulfed.

John shook his head, trying to clear his suddenly not-so-innocent thoughts and calm his pounding heart. The boy looked familiar. He had never seen him at school before though, ever. He would have remembered someone like that.

John turned and began to walk, head down, in the opposite direction to which the boy walked in. He cleverly avoided walking into people, being able to navigate your way through the busy hallways was a skill you never really lost.

Heading to his next class slowly, he heard a few more whispers and saw a few more points. It hardly mattered though, because the only thing he could think about was the thin boy with the pale face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me far too long to write and I have no clue what I was doing half the time so yeah.
> 
> I don't own the Sherlock universe.
> 
> You can find me at littlepurpleduckling.tumblr.com should you wish.

John was sat in therapy, twirling his pen in between his fingers in boredom. It wasn’t even proper therapy, it wasn’t about diagnosis, here it just tended to be boring. All talk-about-your-feelings and time-will-heal-everything bullshit. It didn’t half drive John up the wall, so he usually just sat there, trying to make himself sound as sane as possible.

‘So, John, I just want you to write down your memories from today, and how you felt. Make it a sort of diary.’ Karen Appleby, John’s psychiatrist said. She had this funny way of talking, a wispy, not quite there voice that sounded like John was listening to her through a window.

John shook his left leg, the one which usually pained him. The limp was psychomatic, all in his head. It hardly mattered really. He did it by habit now, to avoid getting stiff.

He felt like an old man.

He looked back up at the woman, who was currently dressed in some sort of hippy get up. A flowing gauzy green skirt with little flowers embroidered on and a white shirt that hung loose, the sleeves long and trailing past her fingertips. She was a platinum blonde, the kind that definitely wasn’t natural, with leathery tanned skin. She looked young but she probably wasn’t, John guessed late thirties, early forties.

John placed the pen down on the table carefully, and leant back in his too-soft armchair.

‘Do I have to do this, Miss Appleby? The entire thing is trivial.’

The woman furrowed her brow at John who looked blankly at her.

‘Well... You don’t force yourself dear, but taking one day at a time, it shall make the process of moving on easier..’

 John stood calmly. His leg almost buckled at the sudden movement, but he held himself upright, albeit rather unsteadily.

‘John..’

‘Next week, same time. Right?’

‘Yes, of course.. but dear-‘

John picked up his bag and walked out, successfully not falling on his face. The door banged shut behind him before John heard the rest of her words.

It was calm outside, a nice summer day, well, nice enough for the south of London. The sun was peeping through the grey clouds allowing moments of warmth. Walking alongside the busy street was calming, the obnoxiously loud traffic blocked out his thoughts incredibly efficiently.

John stumbled down the roads to go home, he was living with his auntie currently, from his mothers side. She was alright, but it was noticeable that she didn’t trust John. She had an understandable reason of course.

John let himself into the apartment building and began the trek up the two flights of steps with his bad leg. It was agony, but there was no lift, so what else was he supposed to do?

When he finally made it to the top, his chest was tight. He breathed steadily though his nose and opened the door.

‘Is that you Johnny?’ Auntie Claire called from the kitchen.

‘Yep,’ He responded, still half out of breath. Honestly, who else would it be?

‘How was Miss Appleby’s?’ She said, coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a stained tea towel.

His auntie had been beautiful once, but now she just looked worn. Lines folded her once smooth pale skin, and her thinning blonde hair was tied up all the time.

‘Alright I guess.’ John shrugged, toeing his shoes off and shifting them to one side.

‘Tea’ll be ready in a bit. I’ll bring you a plate okay?’ She said, walking back into the kitchen.

‘Okay.’

He sighed, padding carefully to his room. It was small, a lot smaller than the one he had in the house he lived in with his dad and sister. He didn’t mind it though, less places to lose things. The walls were a pastel blue colour, and the carpet was an unpleasant grey that matched the curtains. The room was bare, with only a single, unmade bed, a wardrobe, and a desk with a stack of his schoolbooks on. Nothing extravagant, it was easier to concentrate in a boring atmosphere, easier to control himself and his thoughts.

John sat on his bed, leaning against the wall behind him for support. It was dark in here, he’d left the curtains closed. Perfect. He was so tired, he hadn’t slept properly in a week because of the constant nightmares that plagued his mind.

 His eyes fluttered shut and John allowed himself the luxury of sleep.

 

The school hallways were silent, not a soul was to be seen anywhere. When John exhaled his breath formed a steam in front of his face, which floated up and disappeared into the air, he didn’t feel cold. He was walking, where to he had no idea. He stopped suddenly when he saw him.

The boy was here, leaning against the door to one of the classrooms, hair still a mess and eyes still sparkling. He was shirtless, and wearing blue jeans. The lean muscles of his chest pulled taunt when he breathed. When the boy saw John he grinned wickedly. The sight sent shivers up John’s spine. He pushed himself away from the door and took a few steps towards John.

He was so close, John could see the random shades of blue and grey in his eyes. John wasn’t aware of closing his eyes when the boy kissed him. He could feel himself falling away.

John shot right up, managing to bang his head on the wall in the process. He swore and rubbed it violently, numbing the pain. He was covered in cold sweat and he could hear his own pulse racing. John didn’t even know what to think as he breathed deeply.

 It was normal to dream about kissing people at this age, everyone over the age of 12 felt the hormones. But it was odd. Usually in wet dreams, wasn’t it associated with sex? The kiss in the dream was too innocent, like a way to tell someone you cared about them, loved them, not wanted to fuck them.

And anyway, John didn’t know that boy, sure he found him attractive, but when it came down to it, John had no idea who the boy was and if he was just another one of those bratty kids the year below him he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Did it disturb him he was having dreams about another guy? Not really, he had known he was attracted to men as well as women for a while now, it wasn’t one of the strangest things about him when it boiled down to it.

This boy was haunting him though. John had to find him, talk to him somehow, if nothing but to put his mind at rest.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Sherlock  
> You can find me under the same username on tumblr.  
> Etc Etc Etc.
> 
> This is a week late and I shall be posting another chapter later too to make up for it.  
> I'm shit with French accents.  
> Huge thank yous to everyone who has left kudos and commented and bookmarked this, it makes me feel all gooey and happy inside ~^.^~
> 
> Enjoyyyy.

John decided he hated everything to do with history lessons. The fucking teacher with her blank stares at him and her unreadable messy handwriting.

John thought all that blonde hair dye must be getting to her brain.

That and the fact that she called John back at the end of the lesson, trying to discuss with him why he had missed so much school and how he would have to catch up on the two entire chapters he missed about some shitty Victorian bloke, so now he was a good seven minutes late for french with Madame De Ville, who quite literally was the human embodiment of evil. 

It wasn't like she was a bad person she just never liked John, she never liked anyone really. 

Hesitating slightly, he contemplated knocking on the door, before deciding against it. Better get it over with, he thought as he pushed the door open. 

Twenty odd pairs of eyes ogled at him. 

'Excuse moi?' Madam De Ville had a face of thunder at obviously being interrupted mid-sentance. 

'I-' John froze. There he was. 

The boy that he could hardly stop thinking about, the one with the cheeky smirk and the mad scientist hair was sat in the third row, by the window, the light reflected off his dark hair and made it look like black silk. With the only empty seat next to him. He was staring at John and John couldn't help but stare back.

'Jahn Watzon, sit next to Sherlock, s’il vous plait.' Swallowing nervously, John made his way over to the boy and slid into the seat next to him. Sherlock was his name. It fitted, it was different, like him. He was still staring at him. It was unnerving.

‘What?’ He spat out, rather harshly at the boy, his pale eyes widened in shock before narrowing harshly, his brow creased.

‘Should I apologise for being so insolent? I wasn’t aware that a known psychopath was attending high school.’ His voice was deep, lower than it should be for a boy his age, filled with ice. He also sounded slightly snooty, bratty, like a small child who didn’t get their way. He sounded posh. John clenched his fists under the desk and looked down. The _nerve_ of the fucking kid.

Tapping his feet to vent energy seemed to be the best way to go about it all. He could still feel the boy watching him, his gaze was harsh, cold, analyzing, he had no clue how he seemed so cheeky and fun in the hallway yesterday. Must have just been John, fucking up everything as per usual. Ruining his chances with the micheivious boy faster than a heartbeat.

Bit of a shame.

John kept his head down all through French; staying quiet was the best way to stay unnoticed, and ignoring the stunning boy beside him. When the bell rang, he was the first one out of the door. Finally he was free for an hour.

John followed the crowd to the bustling canteen, where the smell of mould was getting a bit ridiculous. He slipped into the queue and picked up a pre-wrapped sandwich along with a bottle of water from the cooling shelves. He handed two pounds to the rather startled looking staff at the till and went about his way.

The wooden tables and benches were dotted around the hall, a few were pushed together for bigger groups of people but that was it. The reflective lighting made everything look slightly yellow and the weather outside the large single pane windows was grey and miserable.

‘No way in hell is that John Watson!’ A familiar voice called. John spun around, already knowing who it was.

‘And no way in hell is that Greg Lestrade.’ He retorted. Greg sauntered over and clapped a hand on his shoulder, Greg was taller than him by a few inches, with lightly tanned skin, dark eyes and black hair already sprinkled with grey, especially around his temples. He wore slack, faded jeans, a white shirt and an old leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. If John remembered correctly he owned an ancient orange motorbike which had been his uncle’s once upon a time. He had been John’s best mate before the incident.

‘Where the fuck have you been then mate? I saw what happened, everyone did, but then you fucked off!’ Greg exclaimed while dragging him over to a table.

‘I don’t even know to be honest,’ John shrugged. ‘Shit went down, I was in hospital, then I was trying to escape from rehab for a month.’

John sat down opposite to Greg, who was currently stabbing at his pasta thing rather viciously with a spoon.

‘What happened to Molly then? Is she still your bird?’ John asked, changing the subject.

‘Nahh, we’re still mates though, she hangs around in the library half the time though so I get rather bored.’

‘Fair enough, she was always the geeky type, you got anyone new?’

‘Erm..’ Greg looked down, turning pink slightly, John cackled in glee. Greg’s love life was pathetic at the best of times but when it involved someone he actually liked... God forbid.

‘Go on then, tell me, who’s the lucky gal?’

‘Well... He’s a he for starters, his name’s Mycroft.’ John choked a bit on his sandwich at the new information, before swallowing.

‘Mycroft huh? Sounds posh.’

‘Yeah, he is rather. It’s amusing though,’ Greg smiled slightly to himself. John almost cooed at him, going all blushy over a guy he liked. It was hilarious.

‘Am I going to have to put the fear of God in him for you?’

‘Trusting you, you are going to do it anyway.’ Greg shrugged, ‘He’s a few years older though, Sixth Form.’

‘God _damn_ Greg.’ John laughed out loud.

This is why he was friends with Greg, they could laugh at each other and make jokes and none would be the wiser. It was a decent friendship if nothing else.

A sudden thought dawned on John.

‘Hey, have you ever heard of a guy called Sherlock? He was sat next to me in French and I’ve never seen him around before.’

‘Yeah, he started about three weeks ago, he’s Mycrofts little brother actually. He skipped a year and for all I know he’s a bit of a dick. My cares about him a lot though, says he has to keep him out of trouble.’

‘Hmm.’ John bit his lip, processing this new information. A new kid that started when he was still doped up. He seemed alright though, harsh, but that was only because John snapped at him first.

He wanted to know more about this Sherlock guy, wanted to befriend him, learn about him. He seemed interesting. More so than the average new kid anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that early chapter that I promised...
> 
> I have literally no clue what's going on with any of this.  
> John's fecking crazy and sleeps a lot.   
> Sherlock's a cutieeeee.  
> Long conversations that go nowhere ensue. 
> 
> Enjoy c:

‘You promised me you’d stop!’

‘I’M SORRY OKAY! I don’t know what to do Johnny, he knows. Oh god he _knows..._ ’

John’s big sister was trembling all over, the over half empty bottle of Jack Daniels was grasped in one fist and the other was clenching the promise ring Clara had given her last Christmas. The tiny, seemingly insignificant golden thing that had started this whole nightmare. Harry’s hair was a mess, tied clumsily on the top of her head, the dirty blonde spikes that stuck out of the knot were greasy and matted. She looked tired.

She hadn’t smiled in days, but she did now, sadly. Blood dripped down between her teeth and mixed with her saliva, down her baby blue vest, staining it red.

John screamed but his voice sounded far away and distant. He screamed for help.

Harry slumped forward, blood blossoming from unknown wounds, cuts and bullet holes in her flesh, she was covered in the sticky red stuff, it was everywhere, there was so much of it. He was covered in it, it was on his face, in his eyes and mouth and in his ears and up his nose. He was drowning in all the blood.

John opened his eyes to find himself in his room in his auntie’s flat, it was dark, the only light coming from his bedside table clock, the little blue _3:47_ lighting up the room.

His mouth was dry and his body was wet, he was sweaty and cold and he had tears down his temples from where gravity had pulled them into his hair. His duvet was missing, probably thrown on the floor.

John sat up slowly, his lungs felt like sandpaper. The thoughts were whirling around in his brain, the blood, Harrys smile, fixed in his memory.

John fisted his short hair in both hands and pulled, feeling the numb pain.

‘ _Calm down for fuck’s sake.’_ He hissed at himself, his eyes were watering and salty water was dripping down his cheeks and off the end of his nose and in to his lap.

He sat like that in the dark until his alarm went off, terrified to go back to sleep.

-

‘John?’ Someone was poking his face.

‘John, wake the fuck up mate, class is over.’

John opened his eyes sleepily to see Greg standing above him, bag slung over one shoulder, looking ready to go.

‘S-sorry.’ He mumbled. Getting up, he shoved his pencil case and folder into his bag and followed Greg out of the room, yawning.

‘Rough night last night then?’ He asked casually.

‘You have no idea. What’d I miss?’

‘Stewarts’ is currently going through divorce according to Mr Brain Box who keeps staring at you but apart from that-’ John instantly jolted awake.

‘Wait, what? Who’s staring at me?’

‘Sherlock Holmes, who else would earn the title of Mr Brain Box?’

‘I don’t fucking know!’ John exclaimed ‘When was he staring at me? Why?’

‘During Business just then.. How the fuck am I supposed to know?’

‘Greg...’ John gritted his teeth. ‘Why didn’t you _wake me up!_ ’

‘Sorry Princess!’ Greg held up his hands in surrender. ‘I thought you needed the beauty sleep.’

John shoved him into the wall.

‘I’m going to the canteen, you coming?’

‘Nahh, I’ll grab something later.’ John responded, so Greg frog-marched off in the direction of said dining hall to go to lunch, John dawdled along, intending to go to the library to try and find Molly, he hadn’t seen her in a long time and he wanted to catch up.

That plan went flying out of the window as soon as Sherlock collided into him.

‘Watch where you’re going! Limping idiot, you weren’t even shot in the leg!’ He spat at John, who had been knocked backwards and had fallen on the ground.

‘Maybe you should watch it, kid, I mean, technically, you did run into me.’ John responded in a sort of offhand way, propping himself up on his hands.

Sherlock scoffed.

John sighed.

‘Help me up will you?’ John asked, reaching a hand up to Sherlock.

The dark headed boy took it and with surprising strength for one so skinny, pulled John upright again.

‘Cheers for that, Sherlock, right?’

‘Yeah..’ He looked sheepish, and slightly guilty. ‘And you’re right. I did run into you, so it’s my fault anyway.’

John was standing really rather close to him, Sherlock was a couple of inches taller than John already, despite looking a year younger, making their eye contact slightly tilted. He had smooth, clear skin but dark shadows under his pretty blue eyes from lack of sleep. John knew this simply because he had the exact same shadows under his eyes.

John stepped back and awkwardly coughed.

‘So, Sherlock, mind telling me how you know rather specifically where I was shot?’

‘Erm, I mean, it’s obvious isn’t it? You stand and walk around without a cane, so there isn’t any risk of causing yourself damage, plus, when you’re talking to that Graham kid, it’s like you’ve forgotten about it. Not a real limp, not shot in the leg.’

‘That’s... actually rather brilliant, that and how you knew our Business teacher is in a messy divorce. Are you some sort of genius or something?’

Sherlock’s ears, which were poking through his curls, went pink.

‘My parents would say so,’ Sherlock shrugged.

‘So you just know all this stuff?’ John inquired, he was curious about this boy. So smart yet so awkward. It was amusing and confusing and adorable all at the same time.

‘I just... see it,’ Sherlock made some sort of odd gesture with his hands. ‘I see the hints; a missing wedding ring, a speck of mud on someone’s face, then I pull the most logical conclusion.’

‘Cool.’

‘Cool?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Most people would say crazy.’

‘I’m not most people.’ John smiled at him. In that moment, he saw the boy that was leaning against the wall across the hallway, he saw a child with raven hair giggling. He saw Sherlock as he was, smiling back at John, looking relieved and surprised and happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Sherlock universe.
> 
> Sherlock is bored, as per usual.  
> Tea is an important thing.
> 
> This has been posted slightly late because of.. *ahem* ...things.  
> Thankyou to everyone reading and supporting this as per usual. You make me happy c:
> 
> Enjoy.

So after their rather fated meeting, John sat next to Sherlock in Biology, gaining him a few odd looks, but it hardly mattered, because Sherlock whispered deductions to him through the lesson about their classmates, some that made John giggle so much he had to bite on his knuckles to get himself to stop. He learnt that three of the boys across the room were in some weird, threesome relationship, and how the teacher’s assistant was a chronic bedwetter, and how, for some unbeknown reason, that Janice Cooper from across the room eats dog biscuits.

Sherlock was insane, he made John feel free, which was a sensation he hadn’t experienced in... well, almost forever, it was thrilling.

The next day rolled around, and the next, they passed steadily and casually, Sherlock and John were together all the way through the school day (minus the classes they didn’t have together) and they ‘Instant Messanger’ed their way late into the night. Then, rather suddenly, it was the weekend.

John had his laptop switched on, sitting on his desk, with the conversation with Sherlock open on the screen, as he’d left it last night. John, himself, was trying to catch up with old history work; he swore to never let this go and hate the bitch forever.

His laptop beeped several times before John finally threw his history textbook onto the floor and leaned across to grab his laptop.

Lockie221: Bored.

Lockie221: Bored bored bored.

Lockie221: JOHN! I’m booooooorrrrreeeddd

Lockie221: John

Lockie221: John

Lockie221: John

The last message had been sent about thirty seconds ago so John lent against the wall and stretched his legs out along his narrow bed, his laptop on his lap, before he typed out his reply.

SonOfWat: Sherlock

The reply came almost instantly.

Lockie221: FINALLY!

Lockie221: I’m bored!

SonOfWat: I can see that.

SonOfWat: What do you expect me to do about it?

Lockie221: Come over to mine.

SonOfWat: I’m good thanks.

Lockie221: WHYYYYY

SonOfWat: Because

Lockie221: I could come to yours. You live with your auntie right?

Lockie221: Claire Johan.

SonOfWat: I’m not even going to ask how you know that.

Lockie221: Be over in 10.

SonOfWat: Wait

SonOfWat: Sherlock no.

SonOfWat: Goddamnit.

John shoved his laptop aside, not even wanting to know how Sherlock knew where he lived, and proceeded to put his school blazer and tie, along with a mixture of other clothes that were thrown over the back of his desk chair away and made his bed. It wasn’t like his room was particularly dirty, it hardly mattered anyway.

His auntie was out, seeing some cousin of hers for the day two towns over, which admittedly was probably a good thing. God only knows what she’d say about Sherlock.

John ran a hand through his hair as he left his bedroom to pad down the hallway to the kitchen. The black and white tiles were grubby and faded, and there was a certain scruffiness to everything, maybe it was because of the multiple cork boards screwed to the walls that were overflowing with little scraps of paper, old calanders and photographs.

John made himself a cup of tea -strong, lots of semi-skimmed milk, and sat down on the scrubbed wooden, oval kitchen table, which was more comfortable than the chairs by a mile. He sat, sipping his tea from a chipped mug in cupped hands before he heard the sharp _rat-tat_ of a knock.

He slid off the table, god damn him if he was going to rush to get to Sherlock, and placed his mug on the side.

Shuffling out of the kitchen and into the narrow porch, when he suddenly noticed a very soft clicking. He honestly couldn’t believe it. Striding over, he unlocked the door and opened it quickly to see Sherlock kneeling on the floor, lockpick in hand, looking up at John and looking rather startled, if Sherlock could look startled that is.

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, before John coughed awkwardly.

‘Come on in then.’ He stepped aside, holding the door open for Sherlock to walk through, his eyes were darting around, taking in every bit of information he could.

‘Your Aunt is away.’ He said bluntly.

‘Well done.’ John responded, turning and walking into the kitchen. He could hear Sherlock’s tentative steps behind him. ‘Take your shoes off and leave them over there somewhere,’ He gestured to the pile of shoes by the wall. ‘do you want a drink?’

He automatically felt himself go into host mode, and stuck the kettle on again anyway.

‘Tea?’ Sherlock tilted his head to one side, he reminded John of a cat. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, dressed in faded black jeans that clung to his arse in a way that was most flattering, but they were loose around his legs, accentuating the boy’s skinniness. He wore a light blue button up that was rolled up at the sleeves. Upon closer observation he noticed that the first two buttons on the shirt were missing, leaving the collar lopsided. His worn red trainers were off exposing soft black socks on surprisingly small feet. He looked rather cute, standing like that.

‘What else?’ John, upon hearing the kettle click, poured the boiling water into a clean Winnie the Pooh mug. ‘Do you take milk or sugar or what?’ John inquired, Sherlock blinked and stepped closer.

‘I don’t know.’

John turned to him, eyebrows raised. ‘Haven’t you ever had tea before?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t know how to make it.’

‘How do you..’ John began, before he sighed. ‘You know what, doesn’t matter. Try mine, I made it literally just before you arrived.’ John stated, picking up his almost full mug and held it out to Sherlock.

The boy took it and wrapped his bony fingers around it, taking a sip. He wrinkled his nose and nodded.

‘This is really good..’ He observed quietly.

‘You have that one then.’ John chuckled slightly at him, making up the second mug, adding sugar then milk and stirring a lot.

While he was doing this, Sherlock was stood still, taking sips of tea every now and again, licking his lips afterwards.

‘Come on then,’ John said, picking up his new mug and walking out of the kitchen to his room. Sherlock followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is long overdue... Sorry for the wait.
> 
> Sherlock is still adorable.
> 
> Enjoyyy.

John pushed the door to his room wide open, letting Sherlock walk in before him, he put his tea on his desk and sat on his bed, he was greatly amused by the entire situation that they were home alone and in John’s bedroom but he would never tell Sherlock that, it would give the kid ideas, like _let’s go blow something up._

 

Sherlock himself was stood, squinting slightly as he examined John’s room, taking in the plain boring walls and prison cell type furniture.

‘I thought you would be the type to stick up pictures.’ He observed, tilting his head slightly at John’s blue walls.

John shrugged in response.

‘Don’t have any pictures to stick up.’

‘Hmm.’ Came Sherlock’s reply.

 

He then nodded slightly, seeming okay with this response, and sat down on John’s desk chair, making himself comfortable by tucking his knees up to his chest and putting his mug next to Johns. He noticed that the handles on both mugs were facing the exact opposite direction, creating a straight line between them. For some reason that made him smile slightly, it was like Sherlock wasn’t even aware he made it like that.

 

John didn’t look to Sherlock, who was obviously looking at him, and instead picked up his History textbook from where he left it previously on the floor and flicked to the page he was on previous to Sherlock’s arrival.

‘What are you doing?’ Came the obvious question.

‘History homework.’

‘Boring.’

‘I know.’

 

They fell into silence again, John couldn’t concentrate on the text in front of him because he was too aware of Sherlock, his watching gaze; broken up by soft batting eyelashes. His deep breathing falling into rhythm with John’s easily. He was tapping his fingers against his knee, creating a soft _pat patpat pat._ John didn’t think he’d ever felt so calm in his life.

 

‘John?’ he suddenly asked in a childlike way.

‘Hmm?’

‘Are we... friends?’

John thought the question ridiculous.

‘Of course we’re friends, Sherlock.’

Silence met that statement, then

‘Why are you my friend?’

The question took John by surprise, he looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his face was surprisingly close, eyes wide and clear, looking straight into Johns. He had put his legs down from where they were and edged to the end of the seat, seemingly to get as close to John as possible. Why? He had no idea.

He shrugged noncommittally, breaking the gaze by looking away.

‘You’re interesting,’ he finally said. ‘I don’t know, because I want to be?’

‘okay..’  It suddenly occurred to John that Sherlock didn’t know how to act around him. It was almost like...

‘Hey Sherlock?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you.....’ he hesitated. ‘Have you ever had a friend before?’

‘Not really,’ it was Sherlock’s turn to shrug, ‘People are stupid.’

‘Thanks for that.’ John scoffed

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You’d better be glad I do.’

 

John closed his textbook that was still open on his lap and chucked it on the floor.

Leaning back on the wall he saw Sherlock relax a little more.

‘So, what made you decide to randomly come over?’

‘Fatty was being an idiot and Mummy took away my frogspawn.’

John decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock called Mycroft ‘Fatty and his mother ‘Mummy’, which admittedly were both adorable.

‘Frogspawn?’ He eventually asked.

‘It was for an experiment!’ He protested.

‘Whatever you say kiddo.’

‘Kiddo? I’m six months younger than you!’

‘Only six months? You look younger than that..’ John frowned playfully at the raven haired boy, who proceeded to stick his pointy tongue out at him making John chuckle.

 

Their silly banter was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone beeping softly.

‘Are you going to get that?’ John asked,

‘No.’ Sherlock deadpanned. Sherlock always answered his phone, it was one of the most reliable ways to tell if something was wrong he had discovered.

‘Sherlock... did you tell anyone you were taking off?’

‘No.’ He said in the exact same tone.

John sighed. He really was a child.

‘Your parents are going to think you’ve gone missing, Sherlock.’

‘So?’

‘You’re making them worry.’ He couldn’t believe he had to explain this to Sherlock.

‘I doubt they care.’

‘Just respond to the bloody text.’ Sherlock shook his head.

‘I will later.’

‘Now.’

‘No.’ Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest once again and peeked at John through his fringe, daring him.

‘Sherlock...’ John sighed at his dramatic tendencies.

‘No.’

‘You asked for it.’ John smirked and pulled the boy off the chair and onto the bed, only to begin tickling his sides through the light blue cotton that had rumpled slightly from John’s hands holding Sherlock still.

‘NO!’ Sherlock shrieked with laughter, his head was thrown back, exposing long pale neck and his curls looking like a bird’s nest. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and creased his eyes and when he laughed he looked like his smile was splitting his face into two.

John paused for a second to take him in, his surreal beauty, when Sherlock took advantage of this and grabbed his wrists and flipped them, so John was suddenly on his back, Sherlock sitting on his stomach, making breathing sort of difficult all of a sudden. With his wrists held tightly in thin fingers, he felt vunerable and Sherlock was so close again, John noted his flushed cheeks, making him glow. His curls were extra ruffled and his sparkling eyes were hooded. His breathing was shallow and quick and John could feel his heart beating a mile a minute. He couldn’t help glance at Sherlock’s lips, slightly parted and damp.

 

John swallowed nervously as Sherlock’s electric blue eyes met his, their faces were so close, noses almost touching. Time was going in slow motion, John had no idea what he was doing and every sane brain cell in his head was screaming at him to pull away when he tilted his head just up a little more so their lips collided.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks, and for that I am sorry.
> 
> I have no words for this chapter, apart from I'm slightly scared.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of past abuse. Self mutilation.
> 
> I would say enjoy but it's not fitting.  
> Here you go, I guess.

John swallowed nervously as Sherlock’s electric blue eyes met his, their faces were so close, noses almost touching. Time was going in slow motion, John had no idea what he was doing and every sane brain cell in his head was screaming at him to pull away when he tilted his head just up a little more so their lips collided.

 

John’s brain instantly went to mush. Sherlock’s mouth was warm and soft against his own, and their noses were rubbing and bumping together slightly at the odd angle of the kiss,

John could feel Sherlock’s curls brushing against his forehead. The entire thing was head spinning and wonderful and _God_ , why bloody hell had they never kissed before?

 

He suddenly realised why; Sherlock wasn’t kissing him back, at all. He was frozen solid in position above him.

He pulled away gently to see Sherlock’s face, still so close he could count his eyelashes around wide eyes. Sherlock had the cutest little pink blush spread over his cheeks. Yet he looked scared.

 

Scratch that, he looked _terrified._

Sherlock was only holding John’s hands loosely now, so John eased himself free and sat up slowly, making Sherlock fall back slightly to sitting on his lap. John was cautious not to make sudden movements, like one would do with a frightened animal.

Sherlock still didn’t move, or react in any way at all.

John swallowed nervously, realising the impending doom their friendship currently faced.

‘I’m.... Sherlock I’m-’ He stuttered out.

‘Don’t.’ Sherlock cut him off bluntly and coldly.

John turned away from Sherlock as he gracefully clambered off his lap. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more than it already was as they sat, side by side in the stupidly loud silence.

‘Sherlock-’

‘Shut up, I need to think.’ He snapped instantly.

So John did, and they sat together, the only sound breaking the silence was their quiet breath overlapping. John was trying to match their breath simply to try and stop himself hyperventilating.

 

‘John?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He said instantly.

‘Don’t be.’ Sherlock replied.

 

They lapped back into silence.

 

‘I’ll see you later, John.’ Sherlock muttered quietly what felt like an infinity later, before he got up and walked out of the small, suffocating room. John didn’t even try to go after him, figuring that would only make the situation worse, and instead, sat there for a further ten minutes after hearing the front door slam shut behind the boy he had just kissed.

 

He just _kissed_ Sherlock Holmes.

 

‘ _Shit.’_  He hissed, screwing his eyes up, finally feeling something other than shock.

He had ruined it, the one friendship he ever treasured, with the one person he had ever felt anything remotely resembling attraction for. John took his head in his hands, pulling hard at his short hair, he couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight and everything was spinning around and around in his head.

‘calm down calm down calm down.’ he chanted quietly, pulling his knees up to his chest so he was completely curled up.

 

He was stupid, rash and foolish. Why the hell had he decided to kiss Sherlock? Of all the things in the world he could’ve done instead, what the fuck possessed him and decided that that was a good idea?

 

Sherlock was amazing, so fantastic and wonderful,

 _So why would he want you?_ He heard his fathers’ voice ringing gruff and bitter in his ears. _No one ever wanted you, you ignorant, selfish boy-whore._

John felt sick, he was going to be sick.

‘go ‘way.’ He mumbled to the voice. He couldn’t deal with this. He never could. It had been so long since he had heard the torment clear as a bell.

 _That’s why she died you know, you could’ve saved her. It was all your silly fault. You should’ve known to not make me angry Johnny..._ His father sneered.

‘NO!’ John bellowed, scratching at his shirt, his face, anywhere he could reach on himself, desperate to be free of this feeling; the overwhelming drowning, suffocating sensations he could never be free from.

 

 The shoulder of his shirt tore so he began scratching at his tanned skin,  turning it pink under his nails until he felt the wetness of blood seeping out of the cracked wounds. The wounds he made himself.

 

John yanked and pulled at the remains of his shirt, tearing it off his torso, he was burning, feeling the long, thick bruises and puffy cracked skin he used to get after his father had had a few drinks and had his metal bat on him. They had healed now obviously but John could still feel them under his skin, itching, pulling, tearing. A constant reminder of how useless he was, how foolish and how he should feel pain. It’s what he deserved.

 

He threw his balled up shirt at his desk, knocking over the two mugs of now cold tea, spilling them over, staining his books with tan coloured liquid. It dripped down onto the floor softly, forming puddles.

One mug rolled off the desk, landing with a dull thump on the carpet.

John fell to his knees beside it like a limp rag doll, he had worn himself out. It was John’s favourite mug, the one Sherlock used. It was plain dark blue with a few chips around the edges from being put in the dish washer too many times over the years.

John turned it over in his hands carefully, tears leaking out of his eyes and dribbling down his cheeks and on to his chest. The salt water mixed with the blood dripping from his cut shoulder, the one with the bullet scar marring the otherwise smooth, bloody flesh.

 

John threw the mug at the wall only for it to shatter and send bits of ceramic flying everywhere before he curled up into a ball again, his bare stomach rubbing against his rough jeans as he clenched himself together.

 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, rocking himself back and forth, trying desperately to block out the taunting voices in his head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up with keeping these regular. 
> 
> Enjoy.

When Auntie Claire had returned from her trip the next morning, John was still sat on the floor of his room, dried blood caked under his fingernails and tears collected in the corners of his eyes, leaving tight streaks on his face from where they had fallen.

He didn’t say a word to her when she came in, asking how he’d been.

He didn’t mention why there was two mugs, as she cleaned up the mess around the desk and binned the shards of broken ceramic mug.

He didn’t say why he had done it when she sighed deeply at him and helped him clean and bandage his shoulder. She could presume what she wanted about the situation; John didn’t care, although he wanted to.

 

He lay in bed for what seemed like hours afterwards, pulling at the threads in his sheets until they were patchy and bare in some places. He couldn’t sleep, how could he? He felt so numb and drained, a dull throb behind his eyeballs and the faint thump of his heart in his chest the only things convincing him that yes, he was still alive, albeit a painful existence.

 

Late the next morning, Auntie Claire shook him gently, waking him from a sleep that he wasn’t in.

‘I’ve booked you an extra session with Miss Appleby for this afternoon, you don’t have to go to school today, considering.’ She smiled at him warmly and he nodded back.

He wasn’t happy about more therapy but his aunt was trying her best and he supposed that’s what mattered. She left him to get dressed and told him lunch would be on the table in ten minutes. She was so kind to him, he kind of wished he was less of a nutjob simply to make her life easier.

John dressed slowly, cautious of his shoulder and taking a deliberately long time before he had to leave his room. The slack jeans were held up by an old leather belt of his and he wore a thinning grey jumper which wasn’t exactly fitting for the springtime but fitting for his mood.

 

He ate at the table with his aunt for once, swallowing the scrambled eggs on toast quickly, not really tasting it.

 

He noticed that everything had slowed down again and greyed.

Maybe he was depressed? That’s what he was told when he got out of the hospital. He thought he was getting better though? He didn’t know anymore.

Perhaps it was because he wasn’t at school... with Sherlock, sorting out the whole bloody mess he made. Did he even have any lessons with Sherlock today, or would that even matter? Would Sherlock just avoid him anyway?

John sighed and felt the dull ache in his leg return slowly, and he suddenly felt no urge to eat the food he didn’t want anyway.

 

‘John?’ His aunt asked cautiously. ‘You’ll be okay, you know.’

He grunted in response. She didn’t know how he’d ruined _‘okay’_ within the grand total of a week.

 

John sat, amusing himself playing with the remaining scrambled eggs on his plate until his aunt took it away from him, and then by tapping on the table in various different rhythms.

 

They left at quarter to one.

 

They travelled by virtually empty bus to the clinic, where they arrived slightly earlier than expected.

 

The only other people in the waiting room was the overweight woman behind the desk, busy filing her false nails and the shaky old man in the corner, hiding behind an outdated newspaper. John ran his fingers through his hair, noting that it needed a wash.

 

‘John Watson?’ Appleby called out through the door, time to face impending doom then.

 

-

 

The next hour could almost be counted as torture in John’s books. Miss Appleby giving him sympathetic smiles and asking him questions that seemed far too personal and unrelated to the subject at hand while his aunt sat awkwardly on the other overly stuffed armchair, fiddling with a pen and not saying a word apart from to briefly explain to Appleby what had happened over the weekend.

 

When they left, John was fuming with rage and embaressment; why on earth was it relevant if he was currently having sex with anyone?

And why the hell did she not believe him when he said no?

 

Bloody woman.

 

John ran his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply. He couldn’t help but think of Sherlock. He hadn’t said anything to Miss Appleby about him, which he couldn’t yet decide was a good or bad thing, but his thoughts were still infested.

Did Sherlock go to school today? He did have a record for not turning up. Was it because of what happened or was it because of another reason?

If he was in school, did he miss him?

God he missed Sherlock.

 

Later, when they arrived back at the flat - John could hardly make it up the stairs his leg was so stiff and sore, he made himself a cup of tea and retreated to his bedroom, where he sat in silence, holding the mug in his hands until the liquid became cold, listening to the traffic outdoors and going over the memories he had with Sherlock, including some of the fondest like; when Anderson was being a dick so he announced rather loudly about how Sally Donovan was getting bored of him because he refused to return whatever sexual favours she did for him.

And that time when he met Greg, and stared at him for a solid fifteen minutes while John was talking to him, before asking politely (for Sherlock) to get his brother to shut up about him because apparently, Mycroft won’t shut up about him. This statement made Greg blush bright pink and John burst out laughing, leaving Sherlock very confused.

 

John left his tea on his desk and went to sleep smiling, thinking of Sherlock.

He would text him tomorrow, and try and find him at school.

They would be fine.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while but it's up now.  
> Bit of a boring chapter, but the next one is going to be slightly more interesting?? I don't know I haven't written it yet.  
> Also I want to thank everyone reading this because I got over 2000 hits a while back and that is mind boggling so thank you thank you thank you uwu  
> Enjoyyy c:

Sherlock wasn’t in school the next day.

Or the day after that.

John had taken to texting him every morning before school, during breaks, and once every half hour after school, repeatedly saying sorry, asking where Sherlock was, and if he was okay.

Not a single message back so far, and John was worried, so so worried. Knowing his luck, the bloody bastard had probably forgotten all about it and was just caught up in another experiment or something.

He doubted it, but hey, a bloke could hope.

The Thursday after _that_ weekend, John finally managed to get a hold of Greg during school, and John didn’t even approach him first.

‘The fuck happened between you and Sherlock that made my boyfriend disappear?’ Greg hissed at him in the library at second break after marching up to him like a buffalo.

John sighed and closed his textbook.

‘I was an idiot.’

‘How so?’

‘I bloody _kissed_ him!’

Greg froze, before slowly sliding into the seat opposite John.

‘You did what now?’ Running his hands through his hair, John tried to explain everything as simply as possible.

‘He was round at mine and he was ignoring his parent’s messages. I told him to tell them where he was and he refused so we... well we started messing around and I just _kissed_ him Greg! I have no fucking clue why, he just looked so perfect and I-’ John stopped, realising what he was saying. Greg himself looked amused, in no way shocked, which John supposed should have worried him slightly.

‘These Holmes boys are gonna be the end of us.’ He chuckled, John didn’t respond.

‘You know how he is, Greg. I recon he was still struggling to comprehend the fact I was his friend, for god’s sake. And now I’ve probably gone and messed everything up.’ John put his head in his hands. He didn’t even know if he _liked_ Sherlock like that. He had only dated a few girls before he was in hospital, and even then, he wasn’t sure how to feel towards them. He was accustomed to the fact he was interested in both genders but romantically, he had no fucking clue.

‘It’ll be fine mate, but I do think you should talk to him properly.’ Greg hesitated.

‘I haven’t seen him since he ran out, and he isn’t answering my texts..’

‘That’s because, according to My, he’s locked himself in his room at home and won’t come out, he hasn’t for four days.’

John groaned and felt himself sink even lower into his chair,

‘How the bloody hell am I supposed to get to him then?’

Greg hesitated, ‘I’ll give you their address. You should head over there after school.’

‘Could you warn Mycroft about it?’ He asked, running his hand through his hair again.

‘Sure, mate. I’ll text him now.’

-

‘I can’t believe I am actually doing this...’ John sighed, stepping off the bus in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Grand, white houses with red terracotta roofs lined the wide streets, expensive cars were parked next to pretty flowers and there was hardly a soul in sight minus a fat white cat glaring at him from across the street. He had the torn scrap of notebook paper clenched in his fingers, it read:

_46 Huckleberry Lane,_

_Weston Woods._

John looked around at the houses as he walked slowly, his schoolbag banging against his good leg as he walked.

_37...39...41...43...45..._

He looked across the road to see Sherlock’s house. This is where Sherlock lived.

Oh God.

 

He crossed the road but hesitated at the front gate, he breathed deeply, contemplating turning back but... He hadn’t seen Sherlock in days, literally anything could’ve happened in days when Sherlock was concerned, and the idea that John had caused Sherlock to lock himself away brought an unpleasant twinge to his chest. 

 

It was that guilt and determination that got him up the front steps and knocking on the champagne painted front door, sharp and polite. 

The house itself was white paint and red brick, matching the terracotta roof tiles perfectly. There was creeper vines of honeysuckle clinging onto wooden pillars lining half of the house, making it appear like the plant was holding the house together. The front lawn was green and well kept, complete with rose bush and various herb bushes making the entire garden smell like wild thyme and rosemary and mint and other things he couldn’t name.

It was picture perfect family paradise.

 

He was just about to knock again when the door opened to reveal a portly man in a smart shirt and pressed linen trousers. His hair was dark brown, speckled with greying hairs and ever so slightly curly. His eyes were a warm hazel brown.

‘Hello?’ He addressed John in a polite, kind tone that matched his face.

‘Erm, Hello Sir,’ He opted to be polite too, seeing as this was Sherlock’s dad. ‘I’m a friend of Sherlock’s and I haven’t seen him in a while, so I decided to drop by to check he was alright.’ He gave the man his best golden-boy smile even though he was shaking with anxiety.

‘A friend of Sherlock’s you say? Come in come in!’ He announced with a smile to match John’s, opening the door wide to let him in.

 

The porch led into a wide clean hallway, complete with expensive looking crystal lighting fixtures and a baby blue carpet underfoot. There were groups of childhood pictures of Sherlock and Mycroft that John tried his best not to stare at.

One of Sherlock, aged roughly about three or four, was holding up a hand drawn periodic table, grinning at the camera with a front tooth missing.

There was another of Sherlock and Mycroft presumably a few years later, both sitting glaring at each other over a chess board.

And another of a woman he could only imagine was Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s mother, sitting, laughter frozen in frame. She looked like Sherlock when _he_ laughed, full bodied, head thrown back, skin glowing.

There was what seemed like roughly a hundred photographs staggered around the walls of the two boys, their mum and their dad. It was like he’d stepped into a film called ‘The Life and Stories of the Holmes Family’.

 

John followed Mr Holmes down the hall, past two rooms, one closed door with a red triangle on the front; he was slightly worried about that one to be honest, and one door open, John just managing to glimpse a huge grand piano and a few cases for various instruments propped up on special stands.

 

‘John?’ John whirled around to see Mycroft standing at the end of the spiral stairs at the end of the hall, wearing smart, pressed grey trousers, stark white button up and pale yellow slipover.

‘Hey Mycroft.’ John said almost awkwardly.

‘You two know each other?’ Mr Holmes smiled again at them both. ‘Myc, you can show John the way to Sherlock’s room can’t you?’ He asked before tottering away into what John presumed was the kitchen before either of them got a word in.

‘My name is Mycroft...’ Mycroft sighed like he was fighting a losing battle before looking at John. ‘Come on then, I’m hoping you can talk some sense into him.’ He didn’t sound like Mycroft, all stick-up-his-arse and posh, he sounded weary and tired. John didn’t even want to think about what state Sherlock would be in.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue...
> 
> For Cami, who is the only person able to drag me out of the black hole that is procrastination.  
> I hope you like itttt <3

Mycroft spun around in front of him, blocking the way just as he reached the top of the stairs, his leg throbbing dully, almost like an afterthought, although the pain was simmering away at the idea of seeing Sherlock again.

‘Just to warn you John, my brother...’ He spoke with confidence, but trailed off, seemingly contemplating his next words, ‘he can be unstable, and under recent light of what happened. You should air on the side of caution.’

John nodded at him almost numbly, throat dry. He had a suspicious thought that Mycroft knew what happened, although he knew Greg didn’t tell him and he seriously doubted that Sherlock told him.

 

Maybe Mycroft was psychic.

 

The older boy narrowed his eyes at him, scrutinising, before tilting his chin slightly in a nod of confirmation.

‘Second door to the left.’ Mycroft said, gesturing John down the hallway before wandering into the room across the hall which John presumed was Mycroft’s bedroom, closing the door behind him, presumably to give both boys some privacy.

John took a few deep breaths before swiftly stepping up to the door and knocking smoothly.

 

As he expected there was no response, so he cleared his throat slightly before speaking aloud:

‘Sherlock?’ He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to do something with his shaking hands. He sounded more confident than he felt. ‘It’s John, could you let me in? I think we need to talk.’

Nothing happened for a whole arduous minute before the lock clicked and the door opened slowly, revealing half of Sherlock’s pale face looking around the door, squinting at him much like his brother had done minutes previously. His skin was greyish and his pretty lips were cracked from dehydration. He had purple bruises around his foggy eyes and his hair was unwashed and scruffy. He was wearing only a white tee shirt and a pair of too-big boxer shorts.

Somehow he still looked absolutely beautiful.

 

‘John?’ He croaked, voice weak from lack of use. John felt like the world was falling apart because Sherlock Holmes was okay; broken, lost, and unsure of what to do in such a way that it made John want to scoop him into his arms and refuse to let the younger boy go, but he was okay.

‘Yeah...’ He reassured him in a soft voice. ‘Could I come in? I need to talk to you.’

He blinked slowly, reminding John of a baby deer before shuffling away from the door, allowing John in, only to shuffle back to his bed in the far corner of the room, a grand thing with brass header and dirty white sheets piled up in the middle. He wriggled his way back into them, holding his duvet around him like a shock blanket.

 

‘Talk.’ He demanded. John licked his lips and stepped forward, deciding not to invade Sherlock’s personal space and to just sit on the floor in front of his bed, facing the dark haired boy, legs laid out in front of him to not irritate his bad one. Sherlock was now holding a small stuffed bee in his fist, pressing it to his chest like a life support. John found it endearing, if not a little odd. Sherlock didn’t strike him as the type to have stuffed animals at his age.

 

‘I don’t want to act like I regret what happened.’ He began practically businesslike. Might as well state the obvious, he licked his lips before continuing. ‘I like you a lot, Sherlock, these few days have proved that, I hate being apart from you. I know I shouldn’t have sprung the kiss on you, and I’m sorry.’

 

He paused, waiting for Sherlock to respond. He sat in silence for a bit, looking up at the boy who had somehow, slowly and singlehandedly become his downfall. He didn’t reply, just kept looking at him cynically, but the ice in his eyes was broken, shattered and letting the childish worry seep through.

‘Sherlock, you've got to work with me here.’ John divulged, he could feel the helplessness that was so familiar; he didn’t want to lose Sherlock, not like everyone else. ‘I don't know how to do this okay, I don't _know_ how these things work. But I do know that you're the only thing that has ever made me happy, _properly_ happy, and without you, you might as well kill me, it'd be less painful-’ John was cut off suddenly by the younger boy practically falling off the bed and onto him, into his arms; duvet and all, lips colliding messily with his own.

 

He brought his hand around Sherlock’s waist to catch him properly and hold him still, kissing his dry lips like a dying man, cupping the greasy curls at the base of his neck with his other hand. The kiss was frenzied, teeth colliding and Sherlock holding full power, kissing the elder hard enough to bruise.

Sherlock broke away first, taking the opportunity to nestle his face into the crook of John’s neck, thin legs brought up to straddle him and arms grasping at John’s jumper.

 

‘Hey, hey it’s okay.’ He soothed, rubbing Sherlock’s back when he heard the first heart-wrenching sob shake through the slim boy. He had no tears to cry though, having not have drank enough to produce them. John rocked back and forth, making sweet hushing noises and rubbing Sherlock’s back until he quietened. ‘You alright now?’ He looked down at the shaking kid in his arms.

‘You broke me, John.’ He recited simply, his voice breaking from crying, pulling away so they were looking at each other properly. He now had slight damp patches around his eyes and his cheeks had gone ever so slightly rosy.

‘I broke you?’

‘I’m a mess!’ He ranted. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your stupid face! It was killing me and I didn’t know what-’ This time John kissed Sherlock, softly this time, holding it just long enough to shut him up.

He smiled affectionately at the frustrated look on his face, brushing his curls out of his eyes absentmindedly.

‘When was the last time you had something to eat or drink?’ He questioned tentatively.

‘I drank two days ago, haven’t eaten since Saturday.’ Sherlock replied simply, shrugging as though it was nothing. John sighed, scooping the too-thin boy in his arms and standing up relatively easily, letting him slide out gingerly onto the floor.

‘We are getting you some water and a sandwich then, and you _are_ eating it.’ He added as an afterthought, knowing how Sherlock was with eating. He held out his hand. ‘Come on.’

 

Sherlock took it gladly, and they made their way out of his room, fingers intertwined.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue as per usual now.
> 
> Enjoy the plotless crap this is <3

John sat down Sherlock at the honestly quite small kitchen table after Mr and Mrs Holmes had gawked at their son then bustled out of the room to leave them in peace, chattering away but giving the two boys suspicious yet adoring looks.

 

John honestly thought they were behaving like children but that was none of his business. He decided quite quickly that although he didn’t not like them, they didn’t know Sherlock enough to be his parents.

But he couldn’t talk, like he had experience with that subject.

 

He went about searching through the cupboards to find a glass, a loaf of bread and some jam before making up a sandwich, cutting it into small triangles and removing the crust like Harry used to do with his lunches when he was little.

 

John tightened his grip around the blunt knife, clenching his shaking fist, after the memory of how her hair smelt like the pine woods near their old house and then how the metallic blood smelt in contrast.

He inhaled deeply, telling himself to calm down. He wasn’t at home. These people didn’t know about that and they didn’t need to, and Sherlock, although being fascinated by the trivia of John; didn’t need that right now.

 

He put the uniform triangles on a plate and filled the glass with tap water, setting them down in front of a yawning Sherlock and sitting beside him.

The younger looked disgusted at the plate before turning his judging stare on John, although his expression was slightly comical to him as he had picked up his stuffed bee on the way out and had it tucked under his arm again.

‘It’s what my sister always made for me.’ He shrugged by way of an explanation and pushed the plate a little closer to Sherlock. The furrow in between Sherlock’s eyebrows disappeared and he looked almost pleased to know this information, as predicted, before swiping some of the blackcurrant jam on his finger and licking it off.

 

John saw this as a success when Sherlock took a sip from the glass of water, so he let himself lean back into the wooden chair and observe Sherlock far more casually than before.

 

He only became happier still when Sherlock finished half the sandwich on the plate, having picked the other half apart only to scoop the jam out and form a little purple pile of it, and emptying glass of water; nestling into John’s shoulder and yawning again, holding his bee closer. He couldn’t quite believe how physical Sherlock was being with him, how childish he actually was.

‘Nap time?’ He asked softly, not wanting to jostle the other too much. Sherlock gave a little whine in protest, covering his face with John’s jumper and his toy but John hitched his arms under Sherlock’s and around his back, half lifting him up to take him to bed, wrapping Sherlock up in duvet and letting him sleep, before putting Sherlock’s phone on charge for him and leaving him another glass of water by the side of his bed and a note reminding him to drink it when he woke up before he left the house with a small smile on his face, knowing now that at least Sherlock was okay, or going to be okay at the bare minimum.

 

The next day, although Sherlock wasn’t in school, John felt on cloud nine for the first time in years. Sherlock was okay.

The other boy was amusing himself throughout the day by sending John texts in class, answering questions John typed into his phone in Maths to keep the other boy briefly entertained.

 

Eventually, after all morning of texting back and forth, Sherlock sent him one with slight delay. John could almost hear the childish tone in the text.

 

_Come over tonight? –SH_

He tapped out a quick reply before pocketing his phone again, hiding it from his English Lit teacher.

 

_I’ll be there.–JW_

 

He sat eating his lunch with Molly for a change, simply because he hadn’t talked to her in what felt like forever. Five minutes after sitting down he decided why they were never close before John’s ordeal.

The girl wouldn’t shut up.

Especially after John let slip that he was friends with one Sherlock Holmes. John made a mental note to tell Sherlock that he had a bit of a stalker, however endearing it was.

Also the fact that when she smiled, which was oddly often, her eyes glinted like his sister’s used to, and the memories of Harry tore at the walls of his mind again until he got the chance to stab a ballpoint pen into the side of his thumb in chemistry. Distractions always worked best he found.

 

The bell signalling the end of school couldn’t have come quicker and John took the now almost familiar bus journey to Sherlock’s house, letting himself relax into the seat and close his eyes lightly, listening out for the other people on the bus. An elderly pair of women were chattering away, on their way to some charity do; a small child and their mother, sitting comfortably, child playing with the key rings on her bag; a young couple, sharing headphones blasting rap music into their ears and exchanging light jokes and laughs.

 

He left the bus alone, leaving them behind and walking happily towards Sherlock’s house to find him sat, showered and dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans on his front step.

‘You alright?’ He asked casually, approaching the other boy to stand in front of him. His hair was fluffier than it had been for a while, giving Sherlock a childish look and only increasing John’s secret desire to play with it.

 

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead getting up and closing the gap between them, leaning on John and letting the other boy hold him upright.

‘Missed you.’ He mumbled into John’s neck, inhaling in John’s smell he had missed so much. John himself was rather taken aback, bringing his hands around to hold Sherlock steady around his hips.

‘I missed you too.’ He let himself have a small smile again. Sherlock was here in his arms and that was something to smile about.

 

Sherlock stepped away too quickly, and walked up the steps, opening the front door.

‘Come in, Mummy gave me my frogspawn back and I want to show you.’ He told John with a sort of childish demand, leading the way through the porch and to the room John had seen yesterday with the red triangle on the door.

 

He realised why he felt so much better when he strolled after Sherlock and closed the front door behind them.

 

His leg was no longer hurting.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month...
> 
> Oh well.
> 
> TRIGGERS!!   
> There is mentions of child abuse and homophobic slurs in this chapter, so if those are a no no for you I suggest you tread with caution c:

A week had passed, everything seems to be almost back to normal and Sherlock and John were almost always together be it in school or afterwards.

The exception was, of course, that John’s nightmares and flashbacks were getting worse each day, making him shake violently in the middle of school, biting at his lips and picking at his fingers until Sherlock put his hands over his to still him or told him to stop shaking already because it was distracting.

 

It helped, oddly enough.

 

And they were always touching, John noticed. Holding hands or clutching on to shirtsleeves or fingertips digging in to his hips. Sherlock let him run his fingers through his hair when they kissed again, gasping prettily and leaning into the touch in a way that reminded John of a cat, clenching his hands in the loose shirt material around John’s waist.

 

Sherlock was invading his thoughts and mind more and more each day, which naturally meant Sherlock began invading his dreams too. Once or twice he had woken up shaking with fear that somehow his Dad knew about them, and was coming for Sherlock.

John could protect Sherlock when he was awake, from both himself and people at school, but he could never seem to protect him in his own head, and Sherlock bled out on the floor where Harry had been, intelligent blue eyes turned dull and lifeless, staring at nothing.

 

He had unwillingly told Miss Appleby about these dreams he kept having, and she did try her best; to give her credit, starting him on some new medication meant to help with his symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress or whatever it was.

 

They had worked for a bit, and being a functional human being was possible.

 

It started when he couldn’t stop shaking, forcing him to sit on his hands during lessons, listening carefully because he knew he’d never get any notes down.

 

Next came the hot flushes, and quickly after that, the cold ones where he lay awake after a particular terrifying dream involving his sister again, and he couldn’t breathe because of how warm it was, before suddenly his teeth were chattering like it was the middle of December instead of the middle of March.

 

One day; when Sherlock had wriggled his way into staying the night, John called out in the dreams, lost in the terror of losing his sister over and over and over in more painful and distorted ways.

 

Sherlock woke him up with a sharp slap to the side of his face. He was sitting on John’s stomach and holding one of his wrists tightly in a vice like grip and the other he had pinned under his knee. He must’ve been moving too much; Sherlock had to hold him down.

 

He shook in overwhelming tremors, and Sherlock scarpered off; glancing at him like a frightened child. He was unbelievable angry, and he had no clue why.

Sherlock; his Sherlock shouldn’t have to see him like this. Not gagging and sweating and shaking and running his hands through his hair in vain attempt to stop the oncoming panic attack as he let out choked, dry sobs and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 

A cold touch ran behind his ear and down his neck, stroking him like a dog but he didn’t mind. He needed the distraction and Sherlock was here for him.

‘Those pills you’ve been taking, they’re the wrong dose.’ He murmured, shifting closer to John on the stupidly narrow bed and wrapping his other arm over his drawn-up knees. ‘causing even more of an imbalance of chemicals and hormones in your head than before.’ He continued to stroke John’s hair as he shook. ‘It’s not your fault. You’ll be okay soon.’ He said quietly.

 

‘Fuck _sake_ Sherlock! Don’t you get it?’ His throat was tight, he felt like he was shouting although he wasn’t.

Sherlock slipped back, removing himself from John, his glance hardening.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let Sherlock believe the lies that he had acted upon. He licked his dry lips before speaking.

‘She was with Clara that day.’ He panted, clenching his eyes shut and wanting, yearning for the touch of Sherlock’s freezing fingers to ground him. He was holding his breath.

 

‘Clara had given her a promise ring, a proper nice one from the jewellers down town,’ Sherlock let him ramble. He needed to tell someone the whole thing, just once. He needed to make sure the actual story wasn’t lost.

‘She came home sober for once, wearing it on her finger for me to see and we laughed together for the first time in ages. She... she told me we were getting out. Clara wanted to move somewhere new with her and they were gonna take me too. We were gon’ get out.’

 

His old accent was leaking through into his voice, he couldn’t stop it. He opened his eyes again and stared at the blank wall while Sherlock’s breathing was steady at his side, arms still wrapped around him. ‘He actually came home that night, he had a habit of not turning up, see. He was drunker than ever and he had a row or summit with a guy in the pub and he had a gun this time. He barged in, shouting all sorts bout how he want gonna have a lesbo slut in his house. He knew bout her, somehow. She- Harry was freaking out and I was tryna keep her quiet. I knew he had a gun so I went out with his old bat;’ He paused to smile bitterly, ‘the one he used to hit me with.’

Sherlock had dug his fingernails into John’s skin of his wrist, but padded fingers stayed gentle behind his ear. He was listening with rapt attention and John couldn’t even care about what was going through Sherlock’s brilliant head in that moment.

 

‘I told him I want gonna let him go near her, not when she was so close to gettin’ out. He laughed, told me maybe I was more of a man than he always thought, instead of the fucking fairy faggot of a son he was stuck with. The... He had the gun in his hand and it was past me and through the open door. She was standing there and he... He shot her in the stomach and there was so much  _blood._ ’’ John clenched his teeth and practically spat out. He remembered it clear as day, pooling along the floor and over his bare toes, sticky and hot adding fuel to the fire of anger he held against his father.

‘I hit him then you know, with the bat in the side of the head, made his aim all wonky so he didn’t kill me when he shot me. It only went through my shoulder. I hadn’t hit him hard but I’d knocked him silly enough so I could pick up the gun he’d had in his hand. I thought I was gonna die- bullets hurt like a bitch through muscle and bone and I thought that if I was gon die, maybe he should die too. So I made him die.’

 

Sherlock was silent as John’s laboured breathing slowly became more stable after his rant. He slackened against his tense touch and leaned into Sherlock who whispered slowly, and if John didn’t know any better, Sherlock was scared. Of him? He didn’t know.

‘It was said to be a suicide.’

‘They couldn’t have it known that a fifteen year old kid shot his dad, and Clara’s mum worked in the police at the time and she made it so I wasn’t charged with anything.’

 

Silence again.

 

John sighed and leant back into his pillows. He’d stopped shaking by now and he didn’t think he’d ever been so tired in his life. He reached up and took Sherlock’s frozen, cold hands and held them loosely, running his thumbs over the back of them.

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘Listening. And staying, especially when no one else would’ve.’ He caught Sherlock’s blank gaze, bright blue eyes shining even in the darkness.

‘You’re the only non-boring one, John, I couldn’t leave now.’ He said flatly.

John chuckled weakly.

‘Thank you, either way.’ He sighed, closing his eyes. After a moment or two, Sherlock slid down beside him, tucking his cold feet into John’s leg and resting his bony cheek on John’s chest.

 

‘Don’t ever become like that.’ Sherlock said, and suddenly John was reminded of how young Sherlock actually was.

John lay still, ‘If I become like that, promise me you’ll take me out, kill me just like my dad wanted to. Give me the knife, or noose or gun or rooftop to jump off of cause I don’t wanna live like that and I sure as hell don’t want you seeing me like that.’ he stated, remorseless.

 

It scared John, knowing that it was the truth, but he ignored the twinge in his gut when Sherlock responded.

 

 ‘Okay.’


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while...
> 
> fluffiness I guess? idek.
> 
> Enjoy.

John wakes silently the next morning- no more nightmares, to a sleeping Sherlock curled into his side, head on his chest like a small animal. His still freezing feet were pressed to the inside of John’s calves and his arm was thrown almost possessively over his waist. He smiled and carefully reached up, tenderly brushing the wild raven curls away from his pale forehead and the one visible closed eye. John didn’t know if it was just the fact that Sherlock had stayed after the previous night but somehow he looked even more beautiful than ever before.  

 

His eye shot open at the new contact, staring at John unnervingly.

‘Good morning,’ John smiled, hopefully in what was a friendly, sleepy manner.

‘It’s creepy to watch people sleep you know.’

‘Says you.’ John retorted as Sherlock stretched out, curling his toes and fingers and arching his back so his shirt pulled up exposing pale expanses of smooth skin. John instinctively tightened his hold on Sherlock’s bare waist as so he wouldn’t fall out of the narrow bed and was surprised by how warm he was. Sherlock let out a frankly pornographic moan-sigh thing before nestling back into his side.

 

‘I’m going to get a cup of tea, do you want anything?’ John sat up and regrettably got out of the warm grasp of Sherlock.

‘Coffee?’ He looked up under the mass of blankets, curly hair sticking up even more so and bouncing with his movement.

‘You consume too much caffeine as it is. No, you can have a cup of tea.’

‘Tea has caffeine in it!’ He retorted.

‘Not half as much.’ John replied, pulling on a pair of socks and wandering out of his room.

 

He was glad Sherlock wasn’t angry with him, but then again he’d probably just forgotten everything already; he did tend to do that with information he found boring or useless. He treated his mind like a computer hard drive and John sometimes wished desperately he could do the same, sort away and just forget all the bad memories, delete them from his consciousness.

 

Pottering into the kitchen and putting on the kettle, he rested against the counter, checking the time on the small digital clock on the side. Ten past eight.

His auntie bustled in just as he was pouring the water into two separate mugs,

‘Morning,’ He greeted.

‘Good morning,’ She smiled fondly, glad to see him awake for once. ‘I have to head to work at the cafe early, make sure to get Sherlock and you some food and leave for school on time.’ She kissed him quickly on the cheek and grabbed her handbag. ‘See you later dear.’ She said before rushing out of the door.

John finished up making the tea and treaded carefully back up the stairs to his room, much slower this time to avoid spilling the scalding liquid.

 

He pushed open the door with the side of his foot to find Sherlock sitting up and leaning against the wall, bony feet swamped in duvet and typing away at his phone; already with a snarl marring his pretty features.

‘Tea,’ John said simply, holding out the mug for Sherlock to instantly drop his phone in his lap and reach out, wrapping his thin icy fingers around the warm ceramic.

John sat down near him sipping his tea for a bit before asking ‘Who were you textin’ just then?’

‘Fatty.’ He answered simply, blowing steam over the rim of his mug and watching it swirl with narrowed eyes.

‘Ah,’ John said in way of understanding, ignoring the immature nickname Sherlock had for his brother; he had never offered any explanation and frankly John was too scared to ask. ‘What about?’

As if to answer his question, the phone on the desk across the room started ringing its little default tune that Sherlock had laughed at upon hearing it once. He reached out and grabbed the phone, balancing his tea on his knee while answering with a polite ‘Hello?’

He could hear the younger boy grumble and complain behind him.

 

‘Ah, John. You seem to have my brother with you and I’m afraid I must ask you of something.’

John shushed Sherlock who stuck his tongue out at him before he answered.

‘He’s not being particularly sociable but I can try; what do you need, Mycroft?’

‘My mother wants to hold a dinner for the entire family plus Gregory and yourself of course, and it would be rather kind of you if Sherlock could be at home at five tonight.’ He stated primly. It took John a minute to realise what was happening, he was being asked to formally meet the parents and the idea alone made him want to laugh aloud.

‘Err, I guess so,’ he said in amusement and at Sherlock’s appalled glance he grinned. ‘We’ll be there.’

‘Good. We shall see you later tonight then.’

As soon as John put both his half empty mug and the phone down on his desk he was tackled by his very troublesome boyfriend.

 

‘Why the hell would you do that to me?’ He jabbed at John’s cheek. ‘You must hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you, Sherlock.’ John smiled cheekily at the other boy, slinging his arms around his waist easily as so he didn’t fall off his lap. ‘I just want an opportunity to meet your parents when we both aren’t going clinically insane.’

‘You’re so weird.’

‘Not really, if my ma was still here she’d damn well want to meet you properly.’ He said without thinking and abruptly he remembered everything he told Sherlock, and now how his past hung between them like a great weight.

Sherlock looked at him with big, curious, steely grey eyes.

‘Whatever, now get off me you great lump.’ He tried to brush off the awkwardness and shifted Sherlock off him. He was lying of course, the younger boy was still very much a stick, not yet recovered from his latest bout of not-eating. ‘We’re going to be late for school if we keep up like this.’

‘Can I borrow one of your shirts? I spilt magnesium sulphate on the sleeve of mine yesterday.’

John didn’t want to ask.

‘Okay then.’ He smiled again, ruffling his hair much to the other boy’s protest.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been Christmas!! I hope everyone had a good one xD
> 
> Recently I've been thinking about how to wrap up this fic, and I have an idea. One of my New Year's resolutions is to write more (obviously seeing as I never bloody do it) and I have set myself a goal to finish this fic by the end of January. 
> 
> Thank you for waiting and enjoying this trash. Here's the new chapter <3

“I still don’t get why you’re so insistent we don’t go.”

“Because it’s Mycroft! Doing what he says goes against every rule I have.”

John raised his eyebrows at the thin boy, who had quite literally just stamped his foot in anger.  

“We’ve already had this argument, Sherlock.” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes and trying not to groan as he felt Sherlock collapse on the grass, folding his arms like the bratty little tyke he was.

 

John just leant against the school fence as Sherlock crossed his legs as he sat on the damp grass, John’s shirt that was currently untucked from the waistband of his smart grey trousers, meaning it was almost positively going to be covered in grass stains now. It was the end of the school day.

He’d given up on trying to make Sherlock wear his jumper, seeing as the other boy couldn’t really care less if he caught a chill from the damp air and unseasonal cold that clung to everything.

“I swear you hate me.”

“It’s dinner with your parents.”

“Exactly!!”

“I’m not giving up, Sherlock; I told Greg and Mycroft we’d be there so we will be there even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

 

John raised his eyebrows at the defiant attitude and the small smirk ghosting over Sherlock’s thin lip, John himself stood properly and adjusted his bag strap on his shoulder.

“You forget I was captain of the rugby team last year, Sherlock.” John mimicked the pale boy’s cheeky expression as he leant down and in one swift movement; hitched Sherlock up against his chest and clean into the air with his arms underneath his knees and around his shoulders like he was a lot smaller and a lot lighter than he actually was, despite being stupidly thin.

Sherlock let out a pathetic sort of shriek and clung to the front of John’s shirt as he laughed, vibrations running through Sherlock’s fingertips as he felt John’s warm, flat hands hold him with a familiar sort of ease.

John smiled with fondness as a pretty peachy pink blush bloomed on Sherlock’s cheeks in spots; he was mumbling incoherently and adorably.

 

“What was that?” John smoothed the tremors in his legs as he fisted his jumper in bony hands.

“You’ve made your point.” Sherlock said hotly, the blush spreading quickly over his nose and up to his ears, which were hidden in his long curling hair; god he needed a haircut.

“Should I let you down then? Or perhaps I should just carry you home.” Sherlock shook his head shortly and with that John lowered him down so Sherlock could regain his lost grace and slide to his feet himself.

“You coming?” John turned to look at the flustered younger boy who just huffed and stomped ahead in a way that made John burst out laughing and have to jog to catch up.

 

Later that night, after they had suffered through an hour and a half of stilted conversation and the crippling innuendos Greg kept slipping into casual conversation that made John want to cry with laughter and Mycroft blush the most hideous shade of cherry red over honestly the best meat-and-potato pie he’d ever eaten.

Sherlock had grabbed him by the hand once everyone had finished and John had gone through the awkward meeting-the-boyfriend, ‘So how did you and Sherlock meet?’ interrogation by the sweet and oddly bumbling Mrs. Holmes and dragged him upstairs to his room, not much to John’s protests while Greg winked at him from over Mycroft’s shoulder. He honestly wondered how the ginger put up with him.

 

“That was awfully rude you know,” John laughed, he had felt high all night, happy and floaty at the odd domesticity of the Holmes residence.

Sherlock shoved him onto his neatly made bed in order to properly clamber onto his lap, bony knees and elbows jabbing into him. “Hey!” John called out in protest and grabbed the younger boy’s thin wrist in one hand to still him, it wasn’t threatening or harsh, just a secure movement made to reassure that Sherlock could escape if he really wanted to. “What’s wrong?”

 

He didn’t reply for a while, only narrowing his eyes.

“You’ll find it stupid.”

“I could never find you stupid.” John stated, running his thumb over the soft skin of his inner wrist.

“I don’t like it when you don’t pay attention to me.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly and squirmed on his lap to get more comfortable. John didn’t even care that his bones were digging into his skin as his face split into a wide smile.

“You were jealous.” He gleefully pointed out.

“I wasn’t! I just hated the fact you were talking to my parents more than me.”

“That’s being jealous, Sherlock.” John let go of Sherlock and leant back on his hands, watching the other boy huff.

“Call it what you will-”

“Jealously.”

“-I didn’t like it, you’re mine.”

“Cause that’s not creepy.”

“Shut up.”

John raked a hand through Sherlock’s silky hair, mussing it up even more as it flopped back down over his forehead.

“I love you, you have no reason to be jealous.” He smiled softly, letting the words slip out and not caring much about the consequences. It wasn’t like he was lying after all.

Sherlock, on the other hand hadn’t seemed to have heard him, and instead tilted his head so John would keep touching his hair.

 

Ten minutes later, after Sherlock had bundled himself into John’s chest and claimed to be going to sleep, John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and hummed in happiness. Despite the abrupt disregard to the game-changing words, he didn’t mind. He knew his affections were returned at least a little bit and he felt honoured for that right. It seemed like nothing could go wrong at that moment, and well, his luck never really did hold out much.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I reached 100 kudos on this fic... I screamed.   
> Thank you all <3
> 
> It's gonna get a bit angsty now... I hope you like it c;

The week after was calm enough, April beginning with no hindrance between anyone who mattered apart from Greg pulling April Fools’ jokes well until the fourth on half the bloody year group, some fair ones, some downright cruel; although in honesty they all went to the brats in the other classes that John had once been friends with and since picked on Sherlock because of his intelligence and spread shit around about Mycroft seeing as, well, he was Sixth Form and no one would dare pick a fight with someone above their year and above their intellect in leaps and bounds.

 

John didn’t see much in it though, laughing along when Mycroft’s frankly adorable baby photos were leaked and when Greg got Sherlock into tricking half the school that John had run away to Vietnam with a long lost step brother, including a good half of the teachers which were startled to see him when he arrived again after the week end.

 

Sherlock began doing other things then, John realised, more so than just schoolwork and clinging to him and not-eating. Mischievous  things like nicking chemical compounds from the science labs and dissolving the ceiling tiles for amusement, or carving deductions about teachers into all the desks in the room.

Gradually though, they became less childish, leaning more towards things to do with the police and a recent death of a child-star swimmer, babbling on about things that seemed completely irrelevant to John but convinced Sherlock that he was working on a murder crime.

 

After a few days of that, Sherlock grew restless and stubborn about the whole ordeal and refused to talk about it, and anyone else would’ve thought that it would end at that. It didn’t.

 

The first sign was that he stopped complaining about being bored, gradually at first but then all at once; it had seemed like the phrase ‘I am bored’ simply dropped out of his vocabulary and he gradually began becoming more unavailable; harder to get a hold of as half the time nowadays his phone was switched off, and not being able to hang out with John as much as they did only weeks prior.

 

He would be lying if he said the sudden change in attitude didn’t hurt. A lot.

Well, he had just gone and confessed his love for the sod and now whenever they finally got to spend time together that wasn’t cramped into school hours, Sherlock was thoughtful and distant and no amount of nose-poking or neck-nuzzling could bring him back.

 

It was like his Sherlock had faded away, gradually and not all there; he was a mere shadow of what he used to be to John, his eyes sunken into his head, pupils blown wide and cheeks hollow with every day passing without more than a few bites of food passing his lips.

John made eat at least a little, what more could he do?

The more he thought about it, the more he realised Sherlock’s behaviour altering since they became close friends and later on, a couple. He had changed Sherlock, he had infected the brilliant boy who could tell who’s mother had been hooking up with the priest by the way their shirts had been folded with his horrid past and diseased mind.

So the self-hatred began anew in both of them.

 

And then suddenly, Sherlock was missing school again, and no matter how many times John called or texted or dropped by his house to see the moody younger boy curled up on his bed with fingers steepled under his chin like some sort of ancient greek professor and he just shouted at him to shut up and leave him alone;

“Am I not important enough to be given the time of day by Sherlock Holmes anymore then?”

“Not when you won’t just let me think!”

 

So John did.

 

A month had passed, and the pitiful sun was shining more often in the food-colouring blue sky when Sherlock returned to classes upon request of the school to his parents; glaring at everyone and clinging to John more like a leech than a once-healthy teenage boy, even though they hadn’t spoken properly in weeks.

He was crushed, it felt worse than the loss of his family in a way because it wasn’t one sudden nightmarish event, it was gradual, ghosts stealing parts of his boyfriend away and refusing to return them, and in so doing stealing parts of John away.

His limp returned within hours of not seeing his Sherlock happy and bratty and bouncing and the night terrors a few days after that. He became a bucket of walking anxiety not long after that but those sort of transitions are hard to pinpoint.

 

His worry for Sherlock and stress over exams which he had trials for in less than a week and his own crippling inability to function like a normal human being without his life revolving around the other boy became apparent when John was up; terrified to go to sleep in case he saw his dad again, studying for the trial he had in geography the next day when he got a message from Sherlock.

 

Lockie221: John?

Lockie221: I’m a revolting human being

Lockie221: And you are amazing and you deserve so much better

Lockie221: But please

Lockie221: I need you

 

The last message flickered onto the screen as John typed out his reply.

 

SonOfWat: I’m on my way, don’t panic.

 

He dropped his pen and shut down his laptop as he yanked on his trainers. He had snuck out before, just not from his aunt’s, and he suddenly couldn’t praise whatever God there was enough because she was working tonight which meant he could just slide on his jacket and shoes and be out of the door, careful to lock it behind him and hide the key in the side of his sock –which was a needs must as there was no place to leave it.

He was out of the door and into the cloudy summer night in less than five minutes flat, where the air was stuffy and thick in his nose and the roads were silent as he all but ran down the stairs and to the latest bus stop, never being so thankful for late-night transport as he was when the empty bus pulled up in less than a minute after he had caught his breath again.

 

Lockie221: Please don’t be mad

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it c:

It had started to drizzle when John finally made it to Sherlock’s house via two buses and a quick jog down the street. Who knew it took twenty minutes to get three miles across town? He swore it was never this far before, as he sat alone minus two elderly men sat in solemn silence and shaking his bad leg with nerves and by habit.

He shivered and pulled his thin fleecy jacket closer to his skin as he dashed across the road half a minute later. There was no car parked in the driveway and John instantly began to worry.

Why had Sherlock been so desperate for his company in the first time in weeks? Why were all of the lights turned off? Was he too late?

 

“God... Sherlock, what have you done?” he murmured into the foggy, damp air as he shook his wet hair out of his eyes. Cautiously making his way up the path and knocking on the door before just walking in, manners be damned as Sherlock needed him and well... the door was unlocked.

John point blank refusing to question why it was, and where Sherlock’s parents and brother were; on the list of things to deal with, finding Sherlock was top priority.

He didn’t forget to wipe his shoes on the mat as he cautiously walked past the shadowed doorways to the stairs at the end of the hall, breathing deep and rattling in his chest. “Sherlock?” He called out, creeping up the stairs. He tried to keep his voice steady as he didn’t know if Sherlock could hear him. It wouldn’t do to freak out.

 

His walk was clumping and deliberate, reassured by his footsteps and heavy breathing as he noticed a glow from under Sherlock’s bedroom door from where the old lamp that stood in the corner was turned on.

“Sherlock? It’s me,” He said slowly, turning the door handle and letting the door swing open.

 

Whatever he was expecting to see, it certainly wasn’t this.

 

Sherlock was in the midst of chaos; he looked worse than the last time John saw him, blue veins now showing through his fragile, practically translucent skin around his neck and jaw. His hair was thin and unwashed, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. His mouth was partially open and his breathing was heavy and had no shirt on, exposing his unhealthy form where his ribs and hips and collarbone stuck out like that on a doll from a freak house, pale skin shining with sweat and what seemed like excursion at just forcing air to enter and exit his lungs and for his heart to beat shallowly through his ribs. On one are he had tied his school tie tight around the muscle, or lack thereof, making his skin turn blotchy and inflamed. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed for support.

 

A burn mark was on the carpet by his feet, and littered around that were stubby blackened matches.

There were two glass chemistry beakers with black smudge marks, empty but for slight clear dregs in the bottom, an old spoon that had warped and tarnished heavily and next to those were syringes, three of them, two used and one still in the wrapping.

 

John’s blood was pounding in his ears. He wanted to scream at the other boy, the one he was so desperately deprived of, the one who haunted his dreams both good and bad. He wanted to cry, to collapse, to not have to think of his beautiful boy doing... this to himself for whatever reason he’d made up in his overly intelligent brain.

 

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Christ, Sherlock. Sorry won’t cut this one I’m afraid.”  He exhaled the words, still too much in shock.

Sherlock let his head drop to the side with hollow thunk on the heavy wood, and his breathing became more laboured.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry John, please,” He was begging. Sherlock Holmes was begging him; for what he didn’t know but a solitary tear ran from his eye and down his nose to drip onto the carpet and John felt his heart tear apart as the younger boy shook slightly, obviously restraining himself from fully sobbing.

 

He couldn’t take it. He stepped forward and kneeled in the little space between Sherlock’s legs, nimbly avoiding the evidence of what he’d done and put it where neither Sherlock nor he could see it.

“Listen, Sherlock, look at me.” John commanded, fingertips raising to guide the younger’s chin to face him. “What have you taken? How much?”

“Benzoyl-methyl-ecgonine, cocaine. One tablespoonful dissolved in warm water.” He recited, swallowing.

“Okay, okay.” John repeated to himself more so than Sherlock, thanking the heavens that his boy hadn’t taken anything more. “How long has it been since-”

“About half an hour, the main effects have worn off.”

“Since you started this bullshit.” John finished angrily. He didn’t want to lash out, not when Sherlock was in no state to defend himself, he wasn’t his dad.

“Little more than a month.”

“Jesus...” John sat back on his heels and tried to control his breathing, the heady rush of not knowing about this made him feel sick.

“Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look at Sherlock again. “We need to sort you out before we decide on a plan. Food, Shower, Talk.”

He didn’t respond, so this probably meant he was wallowing around in his own guilt inside his overly active head, so John busied himself with untying the tie and softly massaging the tender flesh where it had dug in, never letting his eyes trail to the fresh, red pinpricks on his smooth, sweaty forearms.

“Do... Do you still love me?” His voice was shaking as he looked down, not meeting John’s eye.

“Of course I do, you twat, just not when you pull stunts like this.” He sighed again, he had a feeling he’d be doing an awful lot of sighing for a while. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t know?”

“I’ll carry you then, c’mon you skinny thing, let’s get a bacon butty in you.” John settled himself on his knees before hitching Sherlock’s delicate hips up to slide him onto his lap.  “Hold on.” He warned before standing up slowly, hands braced under Sherlock’s bony thighs and with the other boy slung over him like a small child he wandered down stairs, leaving the proof of the nightmare behind to be dealt with later.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only a couple more chapters left until this is done I think...  
> Thank you to everyone still reading and commenting and stuff, it means the world <3
> 
> Hope you like it.

After ‘Sherlock’s scare’ as John had taken to calling it, they had spent all night talking, John prising answers out of the weak boy who lay over him sleepily, accepting strong soothing hands massaging his bony back and feeding him small pieces of toast and finely sliced bacon and chunks of apple, lulled to sleep eventually by a gentle voice, deepened by his last onslaught of puberty, rumbling through his bare chest.

 

John didn’t still quite understand why Sherlock had felt so pointless and unworthy of him that he had somehow managed to get mixed up with the typical dodgy stoner kids hiding on street corners, but he understood that Sherlock had done it to help him focus like he desperately wanted to – he just needed to persuade him yet that there were much better ways than solving petty tasks for childish criminals in exchange for substances that could and easily would tear down his short life.

 

Nevertheless he was glad they had talked it through even if half the conversation was exchanged in either pitiful grovelling or sleepy mumbling, and had decided together that every time Sherlock needed a... stimulant or a distraction, he would call John immediately. Not far from their old system then.

 

And over the next few weeks, distractions definitely were needed as Sherlock went through a bout of withdrawl from the brief time he was using and needed John to hush him as he shook and prevent him from scratching at his wrists with overgrown fingernails in need to feel the buzz.

 

This would’ve been much easier to manage, he realised, if John’s finals were approaching with such a vigour that it startled him, and for the first time since his initial incident he had to think about his future like he had one, and he had practically forced Sherlock into that equation regardless of what he previously thought.

He wanted to be a doctor. That knowledge came to him instantly. The ability to help and save people was the only one he had ever wanted.

In reality he could go to the local Sixth Form and waste a couple more years before attempting to get into university and probably failing. Surprise, surprise, when none of that sounded appealing in the slightest. It was all so _dull_. 

He was sounding like Sherlock now.

 

He first heard the offer of Army Training at a short assembly a few days before exam madness officially broke out, and without thinking he pinched one of the signup sheets and slipped it carefully folded into his pocket, meaning to look at it properly later seeing as it was the first thing that sounded halfway decent since ‘Keeping Sherlock Holmes out of Harms Way’ wasn’t a viable career path, despite what Mycroft might say, and with even more worry and suggestion from the dark part of his brain that Sherlock first shot up for John eating away at him, made him think that maybe going to train with the army for a while would be healthy for them both, allow Sherlock to properly rehabilitate and all that, give them both the time and space they needed.

Yes, it was a sound plan.

 

So he promptly filled in the form with the help of his Auntie Claire, who got teary-eyed at the idea of him being her boy growing up to go to the army and sent it along with a printed copy of the CV they had made during class a while ago. John didn’t care, he was ecstatic suddenly at the idea of training. He would be part of a team as an army doctor, mainly in safe places to help treat wounded and victims of warfare, it’s not like they’d even consider that until he was over eighteen. He would also get his medical training free of charge for five or so years of compulsory service.

 

The letter was sent off and he promptly forgot about it in order to focus on getting through ten exams over the course of a fortnight; which, mixed with keeping Sherlock in control and revising too for his own exams, was utter insanity and by the end of the tenth day John didn’t know how he would plough through his last four exams, feeling utterly dead on his feet and not getting half of the sensible amount of sleep due to late night phone calls to keep Sherlock’s brain in the right place.

 

He slumped into the flat after another torturous three hours spent in the grand school hall, thawing icicles off his fingers and trying to remember as much as physically possible about atoms and energy; thoroughly exhausted and ready for a good long nap before he was forced to start revising again for the last time; he couldn’t wait to be free.

 

That’s when he spotted the letter on the kitchen table, thick and heavy-looking, addressed to him with a seal depicting a lion and a crown next to the stamp. His breath caught in his throat with hope as he stumbled to grab the letter, opening it carefully with fumbling fingers and smoothing it out carefully. His eyes skimmed over the printed words

 

‘the Armed Forces have a wide range of opportunities’ blah blah blah ‘we’ve considered what you could offer us carefully’ blah blah blah.

 

“We would like to arrange an interview with you and your guardian within the next week.” John read aloud, voice shaking. He did it. He got in.

 

Well, he got an interview; but it was something. He grinned and squeezed the letter tight in his fist, practically buzzing with excitement.

He needed to tell Sherlock! He’d be so proud of him... John gets to go away and train and learn to save people, what could be wrong with that?

 

He sent a quick message to Sherlock to come over as soon as he could; knowing the boy was clever enough to not have to bother revising, because he needed to talk to him. John’s face just split into a wide smile when Sherlock’s reply came back almost instantly saying simply that he’d be there in ten minutes.

 

John quickly went to change out of his uniform, put the kettle on and reread the letter he’d received again before Sherlock arrived exactly on time.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama drama drama drama.
> 
> Thank you everyone who keeps reading. Still coming to terms with the fact this has over 4000 views o.o  
> <3

John knew something was wrong when Sherlock when the boy waited for John to answer the door instead of barging in like he would normally, but John remembered that Sherlock was constantly still on edge after the whole drugs... thing, and suddenly he felt growing doubt that maybe going away would be a bad thing.

 

Sherlock was shifting from foot to foot when John opened the door. He smiled at him, face splitting into a grin and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist without a second thought to pull him inside.

 

“What are you waiting for? I need to tell you something.”

 

The younger boy deflated a little and was relieved as John pulled him inside. He had no idea what was eating away at Sherlock’s mind but John decided against saying anything yet and instead guided Sherlock into the cramped kitchen by his hand, fingers cold and pressing against the muscles sore from the latest four page essay he’d been forced to write. God he couldn’t wait for it to be over and to go to... wherever they could send him.

 

John let Sherlock lean against the counter as he finished making them both tea; adding appropriate amounts of milk and sugar before handing one of the mugs to Sherlock for him to wrap his icy hands around. He was too cold, he was always too cold.

John sipped from the rim of his own mug and watched Sherlock with fondness, observing the way his long fingers overlapped on the mug and how his nose turned pink with the heat as he dipped his head to drink; licking his pale lips afterwards.

 

“Why were you so adamant I come over immediately?” Sherlock asked timidly, “You’re not... angry at me, are you?”

 

John’s brow furrowed as he put the mug on the side and stepping forward to get Sherlock to look at him, pads of his fingers reaching out to graze over Sherlock’s cheekbone more of an excuse to touch him than anything else.

 

“I’m not angry, Sherlock. Why would you think that?”

 

“Why else would you be leaving?” He flinched away, tea slopping over his hands as he slammed it down on the counter. He seemed surprised by his actions, but steadying his resolve scarily fast.

 

“What?” John reached out again to have Sherlock dramatically turn away, fury burning his skin red hot instead of its cold, porcelain state. John felt like he’d been punched, recoiling as such until there was yards between them instead of inches. “How did you find out?” He asked quietly in confusion.

 

“You left the letter on the table. It has the Army seal. You’re signing up.”

 

“Yes, for training. I got an interview.” John said slowly, trying to think of ways to diffuse the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders, he didn’t want to be touched so John would have to pick his words carefully.

 

“I thought you loved me.”

 

He all but gaped at the younger boy. He was shaking, clenching his hands in his shirt – soft and grey, worn at the elbows and untucked from his trousers, feet shuffling awkwardly and head bowed. His eyes were rimmed pink.

 

“I do love you! God, Sherlock, I love you more than anything in the world. This was supposed to be a good thing! A chance for me to go away and get my training to be a doctor for free, and in the mean time you can get better.” John said in a rush, he felt himself growing frantic, but attempted for Sherlock’s sake to keep himself calm. Sherlock needed him right now to show him it was going to be okay and that this was for the better.

 

“Stop it. You’re picking at your fingers, it’s an annoying habit. Stop.” Sherlock said abruptly, refusing to look John in the eyes and acknowledge what they were actually talking about. He was flitting.

 

John reached a hand out, palm up to Sherlock, scared of the other boy’s reaction if he startled him.

 

“Please, love, look at me. I promise you I’m not doing this to hurt you. It’ll do us good. It’ll do you good.”

 

“It won’t.” Sherlock’s back was pressed flush against the counter, trapped, and as bad as it made John feel to have him cornered like this, he had made no move to leave.

 

“It will.” He stepped closer. “Please, trust me.”

 

“NO!” His hands shoved roughly at John’s chest, shoving him back a little as Sherlock; instead of growing into himself even more seemed to grow out, his shoulders pushing back and bony chin jutting out in defiance. “You did this behind my back! You lied to me when you told me you’d be there for me! You think this will help? You’re just like everyone else; stupid! Can’t wait to be rid of the freaky Sherlock Holmes!” He was crying, tears streaming down his pretty pale face now flushed an alarming shade of bright pink, his nose was running a little and his voice cracked more than twice in his little outburst. John had never seen Sherlock like this, scared and sad and betrayed and it felt worse than the bullet had knowing he’d caused this.

 

“Don’t say that about yourself...” John said quietly. “You know you mean everything to me, Sherlock. Don’t fucking pretend you don’t know that. This will help you, and it will help me too, because God knows I can’t go and watch you hurt yourself like that night again.” Was he shaking? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t even know if he was shouting or not, and he deliberately tried to compose himself. His face was wet; so he must be crying too. God, how did he do this to him? Turn him into such a mess at the barest insults. John’s chest hurt, he could barely breathe.

 

“Shut up.” Sherlock wiped his eyes roughly, “You betrayed me.” He shoved past John again and made to walk out, although John heard his footsteps linger by the door.

 

“I love you.” He said loud enough for the other boy to hear, without making an effort to turn around. He couldn’t. He felt like a fish out of water and he didn’t know what to do.

The footsteps stilled for a moment. He knew Sherlock was considering staying, but alas the door opened and closed behind him with an almost silent click. John’s knees sagged and he almost collapsed, clinging onto the side of the sink in effort to stay upright as more tears streamed from his eyes. He had never felt so lost, so suddenly free falling from the edge without Sherlock there to grab a hold of him and keep him back.

 

He didn’t know what to do.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know I have absolutely no idea how recruitment into the army works >.

The rest of John’s exams passed roughly enough without any hindrance, dull days seeping into one another.

The steady return of his nightmares and the phantom pain in his bones and the general feeling of wrongness that tended to occur whenever Sherlock wasn’t speaking to him had begun anew, yet not as bad as they used to be; which offered some sort of relief that unfortunately didn’t last.

 

His Auntie Claire had made the arrangements for the meeting in the registry offices on the other side of town on the Saturday following his last exam. He was bloody terrified, filled with anxiety over the daunting prospect of people analysing him and his traits and seeing if he was worthy enough.

 

The day after John’s argument with Sherlock, and after he woke drenched in cold sweat and shaking like a leaf at stupid o’clock in the morning; he started running; the stretch and burn of his muscles he had missed from his brief days as captain of the rugby team and the warm afterglow of pleasant aching in his muscles set him in short spans of decent moods before he thought about Sherlock again and nearly punched the nearest solid object.  

 

No word in days.

 

John had tried his best, calling him and leaving messages, texting constantly, instant messaging every two minutes in hope that Sherlock just hadn’t seen his past fifty messages of:

‘I’m sorry’

‘Talk to me’

‘I love you’

 

When the day of his interview finally rolled around, John was practically sick with nerves and he expected he might have vomited had it not been a quick pep talk from Greg telling him he was ‘gonna kill it’ and ‘show them how he does it’.

John had no idea what this meant necessarily but it helped; not as much as a reply from Sherlock stating his forgiveness but he couldn’t have everything.

 

The man who ran the bulk of the interview was tall, with thinning strawberry blonde hair. He looked young enough; early thirties he reckoned, but he was aged dramatically by the stern lines around his mouth and the stiff way he held himself. He asked clipped questions about things like his family, grades, and boring things like what he did in his spare time.

John answered in equally silted short answers, staying polite and casual and flippant about everything in a way he seemed to have mastered quite suddenly.

 

After about ten minutes, the man’s last question, although an obvious thing he’d have to answer, stunted him for a moment.

 

“John, why do you want to join the recruits?” He leant forward on the table a little and squinted his eyes barely. If he wasn’t in a state of hyper-awareness he would’ve missed it.

 

“I...” He took a deep breath, maintaining the frankly painful eye contact. “I want to help, I want to learn to save people.”

 

“That will be all. Confirmation will be along within the next week.” John was bundled out by his Auntie and that was that, it seemed.

 

“That went well, don’t you think? He likes you.” Claire smiled up at him in naivety as they made their way to the bus stop after exiting the dark building.

“I doubt he likes anyone.” John said dismissively and that was the last of their conversations until they reached home.

 

John was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and twirling a pen between his fingers in utter boredom seven days into his summer holidays when he heard his Aunt come home from work and straight into his room, still wearing beige raincoat and shoes to hold out a letter with the same British Army lion-and-crown logo on as before. He sat up like a shot, yanked the thick envelope out of her hand and tore it open in a frenzy.

 

It contained multiple printed sheets of paper; a medical form and a general contacts form, both blank to be yfilled in, a letter explaining in a long winded way that yes, he had been accepted and a small A5 printed ticket for the train on the twenty sixth of July to get up North before transferring to the bus to the training camp.

 

He yelled in happiness and got up to give his Aunt a hug in delight; her grinning in pride and taking the two blank forms from his shaking hands.

 

“I’ll get these filled in for you.” She smiled gently. “Well done, John.” She left the room, leaving John to phone Greg and half shout his excitement down the phone.

 

“Knew you’d batter it! Watson charm an all that.” He could hear Greg’s grin from down the phone.

 

“Yeah yeah, whatever.”

 

“Just don’t get yourself shot now.”

 

“I’ll try not to, but you know how it is.” He feigned a dramatic sigh through his teeth.

 

“Oi, don’t. M’serious.” Greg’s voice was oddly stern through his speaker.

 

“I won’t, Greg. S’just training camp instead of Sixth Form, no danger, I promise.”

 

“Have you told Sherlock yet?”

 

“He knows that I signed up. He doesn’t know I got in yet.”

 

“Tell him. According to Myc he’s climbing the walls.”

 

“He wouldn’t be if he just texted me back.” John said with more venom than he intended.

 

“Either way, you can’t just leave him in the dark. He loves ya.” Greg says casually and John’s pulse stutters.

 

“Nah, he doesn’t think like that. He... Well you know.” John stumbled over his words.

 

“Whatever, man. Just don’t leave without telling him. When are you going?”

 

“Train’s on the twenty sixth.”

 

“Okay. Listen man, I’ll talk later, Dad’s on my ass about something.”

 

“Okay, see you.” John hung up the phone and let it lie in his lap, feeling oddly empty now he got the excitement of telling someone out.

He picked up his phone again and flicked through contacts until he came to ‘Sherlock’

He quickly typed out a message, short and blunt, knowing full well Sherlock probably wouldn’t care. He’d have moved on by now.

 

_I got in. Train leaves on the 26th at 10:30. I love you._

 

After clicking send he flopped back down on his bed again, reading and rereading the letter and smoothing over the ticket with numb fingers. He just felt tired, and he wondered yet again if any of this was a good idea. Too late to go back now.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished... holy shit.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's kept reading this fic, you're amazing.
> 
> I hope you like it.

The days up to the twenty sixth of July passed so quickly that they seemed to knock John every which way before he got chance to process the fact that this was actually happening.

He was actually _leaving._

 

Sherlock still hadn’t texted him back, which had left a painful dead weight on his chest, but John had sort of gotten used to it; if the younger boy wanted nothing to do with him now he was going away, it was understandable. He should’ve never kept the knowledge that he was signing up from Sherlock, but the damage was done. It was a hopeless cause, he saw no reason to continue fighting.

 

Maybe it was easier this way, after all, he wouldn’t see Sherlock again unless the other boy permitted it. It allowed him to leave without hindrance and Sherlock could get over the frankly dangerous dependency they had with each other.

Sherlock could get better, and not have to worry about him, Sherlock shouldn’t have to worry about him for god’s sake.

 

He exhaled loudly and buried his face in his hands. The train was tomorrow morning, god help him; he needed to prepare himself and pack a few of his belongings to take, yet he couldn’t think of what would be important or not.

He ended up just deciding on the basics; two extra t-shirts, another pair of jeans, socks, underwear and gloves – all rolled and folded carefully and tucked into the bottom of his bag. On top of that he stacked a notebook and a few pens, and that was it. The camp would provide all the essentials, that was already promised in the confirmation letter he’d received after the interview, which was tucked, along with his train ticket and other forms into the front pocket of his bag for safekeeping.

 

John allowed himself to sit, to breath in deeply through his nose and lose himself in the heady rush of oxygen to his deprived brain cells –he’d been panicking beforehand, and while panicking he had a tendency to stop breathing. Anticipation was setting in, and the excitement of going to a new place to experience new things was thrumming through his veins.

 

The next morning that feeling had all but been shoved aside by nerves. He woke as the sun broke the horizon and sat on his bed for a good hour, breathing deeply and trying to keep his mind painfully blank before Auntie Claire called him down to breakfast, which was scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of piping hot tea, which he consumed robotically and let her hug him and wipe her teary eyes as she babbled about how she was so proud of him. John hugged her back, burying his face in her soft hair and breathing in the smell of her; soft rose body wash and the slight feminine musk she still had from sleep –she had work so she wouldn’t be coming down to the train station with him, and he was oddly happy with that. He didn’t want teary goodbyes in public anyway, it was easier like this.

 

He let himself for the briefest of moments to feel safe in her arms before they parted and she gave him a small smile.

 

“Best be on your way, train is in an hour and it’ll take you that long to get to the station.”

 

He nodded. “I’ll miss you.”

 

“I’ll miss you too, you do me proud.” She nudged his arm as her smile widened, and for the briefest moment, John saw himself in her, the smile he recognised from his own face. He hardly ever smiled anymore, but he did then. He bent down and kissed her cheek softly.

 

“Goodbye, Auntie. I’ll see you soon.” He picked up his bag, which he had left on the floor as they walked into the hall. She opened the door for him to see him out.

 

“Not too soon I hope.” He smiled at her, stepping out and raising his hand in final farewell before walking down the stairs.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the door click shut behind him.

 

Once he got outside, he made the short walk to the nearest bus stop and checked the times, waiting patiently until the next one to the train station pulled up not five minutes later. He got on, paid for his ticket and sat at the back, away from the kids pissing about on their way to town and the elderly women having a day out. He was on autopilot again, and he wondered briefly, as he watched the buildings creep by, how long he would feel like that; unable to complete anything but the most basic of tasks without thinking.

 

He stepped off the bus ten minutes later, bag in hand and train ticket in back pocket of his jeans. The smell of so many different people suddenly hit him and John reeled, feeling heady yet determined as he stepped through the crowds to the doors of the station, checking the times and platforms and  following arrows to show him where to go.

 

It was 10:23 and platform six was relatively empty. A large steel cover acted like a roof over the stone platform and the wide open rail tracks, only a middle-aged couple sat on one of the metal benches and-

 

He was there. Barely two yards away, stood ramrod straight and dressed in fitted black trousers and thin blue shirt, God, he must’ve been freezing.

John on his breath, sudden emotion welling up in him; feelings he didn’t even know he still had the ability to feel.

 

Sherlock turned his head slowing, tilting it back slightly and looked straight at John. His face was gaunt; eyes rimmed pink and sunken back into his head with obvious sleeplessness. He red lips parted as he exhaled his name and John felt something shift, he felt like suddenly everything was right, everything would be okay. He took a few steps forward so they were stood, side by side, watching each other.

 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” John said in a hushed voice.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t come say goodbye?” His voice was ragged, it cracked on his last word.

 

And suddenly he was holding Sherlock again, allowing his frail form to fall into his arms and hold him tight, fingers pressing into his soft skin and holding him tight.

 

He heard a broken sob come from the other boy’s lips as he clawed at his jacket and t-shirt to get his freezing fingers up to touch his skin as he buried his head in his shoulder.

 

John shushed him lightly, rubbing his back and letting his fingers run through the younger boy’s soft curls.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John repeated like a mantra, not knowing what he was apologising for, but knowing it felt necessary as he swayed slightly, holding Sherlock tight to his chest.

 

“I love you.” Sherlock breathed into the skin of his neck and John tugged on his hair to look Sherlock in the eye. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and John bit on his lip.

 

“Say that again.”

 

“I love you.” Sherlock said with more confidence this time, his voice steadying a little and John felt tears prick in his eyes as he kissed him.

 

Sherlock’s lips were soft against his own and he was gasping prettily at the raw neediness of the kiss as John kept their lips sliding together roughly.

When the kiss broke, John lent their foreheads together.

 

“I love you too.”

 

“Don’t go,” Sherlock’s watery eyes searched his, “Please.”

 

“I have to, I’m sorry,” John smiled sadly “I’m glad you’re here though, I thought I’d never see you again.”

 

“I’m glad too.” Sherlock stepped out of the embrace and tucked his hands into his pockets, smiling weakly.

 

John vaguely heard the train pulling in, the rumble of tracks and breaks squealing and he looked at Sherlock.

 

“I’ll miss you so much, Sherlock. You know you mean the world to me, right?”

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“I’ll write to you, tell you everything.”

 

“You’d better.” His eyes crinkled slightly in what could’ve been amusement but wasn’t, and John exhaled a soft laugh.

 

“See you, Sherlock.”

 

“For the record, you mean more than the world to me." He smiled, tears shining on his cheeks, "Until we meet again, John." The young boy turned carefully on his heel and walked smartly away, shirt billowing slightly in the wind.

John watched his retreating form before turning to the train, a new happiness soaring in his chest, making him feel like he could conquer the world.


End file.
